Her Majesty, Queen Porenn of Drasnia, was in a pensive mood. She stood at the window of her pink-frilled sitting room in the palace at Boktor watching her son Kheva and Unrak, the son of Barak of Trellheim, at play in a garden drenched with morning sunlight. The boys had reached that age where sometimes it seemed almost possible to see them growing, and their voices wavered uncertainly between boyish soprano and manly baritone. Porenn sighed, smoothing the front of her black gown. The Queen of Drasnia had worn black since the death of her husband. “You would be proud of him, my dear Rhodar,” she whispered sadly.
There was a light knock at her door.
“Yes?” she replied, not turning.
“There’s a Nadrak here to see you, your Majesty,” the aged butler at the door reported. “He says you know him.”
“Oh?”
“He says his name is Yarblek.”
“Oh, yes. Prince Kheldar’s associate. Show him in, please.”
“There’s a woman with him, your Majesty,” the butler said with a disapproving expression. “She uses language your Majesty might prefer not to hear.”
Porenn smiled warmly. “That must be Vella,” she said. “I’ve heard her swear before. I don’t know that she’s really all that serious about it. Show them both in, if you would, please.”
“At once, your Majesty.”
Yarblek was as shabby as ever. At some point, the shoulder seam of his long black overcoat had given way and had been rudimentarily repaired with a piece of rawhide thong. His beard was coarse and black and scraggly, his hair was unkempt, and he looked as if he didn’t smell very good. “Your Majesty,” he said grandly, attempting a bow which was marred a bit by an unsteady lurch.
“Drunk already, Master Yarblek?” Porenn asked him archly.
“No, not really, Porenn,” he replied, unabashed. “It’s just a little carry-over from last night.”
The queen was not offended by the Nadrak’s use of her first name. Yarblek’s grip on formality had never been very firm.
The woman who had entered with him was a stunningly beautiful Nadrak with blue-black hair and smoldering eyes. She was dressed in tight-fitting leather trousers and a black leather vest. A silver-hilled dagger protruded from each of her boot tops, and two more were tucked under the wide leather belt about her waist. She bowed with infinite grace. “You’re looking tired, Porenn,” she observed. “I think you need more sleep.”
Porenn laughed. “Tell that to the people who bring me stacks of parchment every hour or so.”
“I made myself a rule years ago,” Yarblek said, sprawling uninvited in a chair. “Never put anything down in writing. It saves time as well as keeping me out of trouble.”
“It seems to me that I’ve heard Kheldar say the same thing.”
Yarblek shrugged. “Silk’s got a good grip on reality.”
“I haven’t seen you two for quite some time,” Porenn noted, also sitting.
“We’ve been in Mallorea,” Vella told her, wandering around the room and looking appraisingly at the furnishings.
“Isn’t that dangerous? I’ve heard that there’s plague there.”
“It’s pretty much confined to Mal Zeth,” Yarblek replied. “Polgara persuaded the Emperor to seal up the city.”
“Polgara?” Porenn exclaimed, coming to her feet. “What’s she doing in Mallorea?”
“She was going in the general direction of a place called Ashaba the last time I saw her. She had Belgarath and the others with her.”
“How did they get to Mallorea?”
“By boat, I’d imagine. It’s a long swim.”
“Yarblek, am I going to have to drag every single scrap of information out of you?” Porenn demanded in exasperation.
“I’m getting to it, Porenn,” he said, sounding a little injured. “Do you want the story first or the messages? I’ve got lots of messages for you, and Vella’s got a couple more that she won’t even talk about—at least not to me.”
“Just start at the beginning, Yarblek.”
“Any way you want it.” He scratched at his beard. “The way I got the story is that Silk and Belgarath and the others were in Cthol Murgos. They got captured by the Malloreans, and Zakath took them all to Mal Zeth. The young fellow with the big sword—Belgarion, isn’t it? Anyway, he and Zakath got to be friends—”
“Garion and Zakath?” Porenn asked incredulously. “How?”
“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there when it happened. To make it short, they were friends, but then the plague broke out in Mal Zeth. I managed to sneak Silk and the others out of the city, and we went north. We separated before we got to Venna. They wanted to go to this Ashaba place, and I had a caravan load of goods I wanted to get to Yar Marak. Made a fairly good profit, actually.”
“Why were they going to Ashaba?”
“They were after some woman named Zandramas—the one who abducted Belgarion’s son.”
“A woman! Zandramas is a woman?”
“So they told me. Belgarath gave me a letter for you. It’s all in there. I told him that he shouldn’t write it down, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” Yarblek unwound himself from his chair, fished around inside his overcoat, and handed a rumpled and none-too-clean piece of parchment to the queen. Then he strolled to the window and looked out. “Isn’t that Trellheim’s boy down there?” he asked. “The husky one with the red hair?”
Porenn was reading the parchment. “Yes,” she said absently, trying to concentrate on the message.
“Is he here? Trellheim, I mean?”
“Yes. I don’t know if he’s awake yet, though. He stayed up rather late last night and he was a little tipsy when he went to bed.”
Yarblek laughed. “That’s Barak, all right. Has he got his wife and daughters with him, too?”
“ No,” Porenn said. “ They stayed in Val Alorn, making the preparations for his oldest daughter’s wedding.”
“Is she that old already?”
“Chereks marry young. They seem to think it’s the best way to keep a girl out of trouble. Barak and his son came here to get away from all the fuss.”
Yarblek laughed again. “I think I’ll go wake him up and see if he’s got anything to drink.” He touched his forefinger to the spot between his eyes with a pained look, “I’m feeling a little delicate this morning, and Barak’s a good man to get well with. I’ll stop back when I’m feeling better. Besides, you’ve got your mail to read. Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot. Here are some others.” He started rummaging around inside his shabby coat. “One from Polgara.” He tossed it negligently on the table. “One from Belgarion.
One from Silk, and one from the blond girl with the dimples—the one they call Velvet. The snake didn’t send anything—you know how snakes are. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m really not feeling too good.” He lurched to the door and went out.
“That is the most exasperating man in the world,” Porenn declared.
“He does it on purpose.” Vella shrugged. “He thinks it’s funny.”
“Yarblek said mat you have some messages for me, too,” the queen said. “I suppose I should read them all at once— get all the shocks over with at one time.”
“I’ve only got one, Porenn,” Vella replied, “and it isn’t in writing. Liselle—the one they call Velvet—asked me to tell you something when we were alone.”
“All right,” Porenn said, putting down Belgarath’s letter.
“I’m not sure how they found out about this,” Vella said, “but it seems that the King of Cthol Murgos is not the son of Taur Urgas.”
“What are you saying, Vella?”
“Urgit isn’t even related to that frothing lunatic. It seems that a number of years ago, a certain Drasnian businessman paid a visit to the palace in Rak Goska. He and Taur Urgas’ second wife became friendly.” She smiled with one eyebrow slightly raised. “Very friendly. I’ve always had that suspicion about Murgo women. Anyway, Urgit was the result of that friendship.”
A terrible suspicion began to dawn on Queen Porenn.
Vella grinned impishly at her. “We all knew that Silk had royal connections,” she said. “We just didn’t know how many royal families he was connected to.”
“No!” Porenn gasped.
Vella laughed. “Oh, yes. Liselle confronted Urgit’s mother with it, and the lady confessed.” The Nadrak girl’s face grew serious. “The whole point of Liselle’s message is that Silk doesn’t want that bony fellow, Javelin, to find out about it. Liselle felt that she had to report it to somebody. That’s why she told me to pass it on to you. I guess you’re supposed to decide whether to tell Javelin or not.”
“How very kind of her,” Porenn said dryly. “Now they want me to keep secrets from the chief of my own intelligence service.”
Vella’s eyes twinkled. “Liselle’s in a kind of difficult situation, Porenn,” she said. “I know that I drink too much and I swear a lot. That makes people think that I’m stupid, but I’m not. Nadrak women know the world, and I have very good eyes. I didn’t actually catch them at it, but I’d be willing to wager half the money I’ll get when Yarblek sells me that Silk and Liselle are keeping company.”
“Vella!”
“I couldn’t prove it, Porenn, but I know what I saw.” The Nadrak girl sniffed at her leather vest and made a sour face. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would really like to take a bath. I’ve been in the saddle for weeks. Horses are nice enough animals, I suppose, but I really don’t want to smell like one.”
Porenn’s mind was working very fast now; to give herself time to think, she rose and approached the wild Nadrak girl. “Have you ever worn satin, Vella?” she asked. “A gown, perhaps?”
“Satin? Me?” Vella laughed coarsely. “Nadraks never wear satin,”
“Then you might be the very first.” Queen Porenn reached out her small white hands and lifted Vella’s wealth of blue-black hair into a tumbled mass atop her head. “I’d give my soul for hair like that,” she murmured.
“I’ll trade you,” Vella offered. “Do you know what price I could bring if I were blond?”
“Hush, Vella,” Porenn said absently. “I’m trying to think.” She twined the girl’s hair loosely about her hands, startled at how alive it felt. Then she reached out, lifted Vella’s chin, and looked into her huge eyes. Something seemed to reach out and touch the Queen of Drasnia, and she suddenly knew the destiny of this half-wild child before her. “Oh, my dear,” she almost laughed, “what an amazing future you have in store for you. You’ll touch the sky, Vella, the very sky.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Porenn.”
“You will.” Porenn looked at the perfect face before her. “Yes,” she said, “satin, I think. Lavender would be nice.”
“I prefer red.”
“No, dear,” Porenn told her. “Red just wouldn’t do. It definitely has to be lavender.” She reached out and touched the girl’s ears. “And I think amethyst here and here.”
“What are you up to?”
“It’s a game, child. Drasnians are very good at games. And when I’m done, I’ll double your price.” Porenn was just a bit smug about it. “Bathe first, then let’s see what we can do with you.”
Vella shrugged. “As long as I can keep my daggers.”
“We’ll work that out.”
“Can you really do something with a lump like me?” Vella asked, almost plaintively.
“Trust me,” Porenn said, smiling. “Now go bathe, child. I have letters to read and decisions to make.”
After the Queen of Drasnia had read the letters, she summoned her butler and issued a couple of orders. “I want to speak with the Earl of Trellheim,” she said, “before he gets any drunker. I also need to talk with Javelin just as soon as he can get to the palace.”
It was perhaps ten minutes later when Barak appeared in her doorway. He was a bit bleary-eyed, and his vast red beard stuck out in all directions. Yarblek came with him.
“Put away your tankards, gentlemen,” Porenn said crisply. “There’s work to be done. Barak, is the Seabird ready to sail?”
“She’s always ready,” he said in an injured tone.
“Good. Then round up your sailors. You have a number of places to go. I’m calling a meeting of the Alorn Council. Get word to Anheg, Fulrach, and Brand’s son Kail at Riva. Stop off in Arendia and pick up Mandorallen and Lelldorin.” She pursed her lips. “Korodullin’s not well enough to travel, so bypass Vo Mimbre. He’d get out of his deathbed to attend if he knew what was going on. Go to Tol Honeth instead and get Varana. I’ll send word to Cho-Hag and Hettar myself. Yarblek, you go to Yar Nadrak and get Drosta. Leave Vella here with me.”
“But—”
“No buts, Yarblek. Do exactly as I say.”
“I thought you said this was a meeting of the Alorn Council, Porenn,” Barak objected. “Why are we inviting the Arends and the Tolnedrans—and the Nadraks?”
“We've got an emergency on our hands, Barak, and it concerns everybody.”
They stood staring stupidly at her.
She clapped her hands together sharply. “Quickly, gentlemen, quickly. We don’t have any time to waste.”
Urgit, High King of Cthol Murgos, sat on his garish throne in the Drojim Palace in Rak Urga. He was dressed in his favorite purple doublet and hose, he had one leg negligently cocked over the arm of the throne, and he was absently tossing his crown back and forth between his hands as he listened to the droning voice of Agachak, the cadaverous-looking Hierarch of Rak Urga. “It’s going to have to wait, Agachak,” he said finally. “I’m getting married next month.”
“This is a command of the Church, Urgit.”
“Wonderful. Give the Church my regards.”
Agachak looked taken a bit aback. “You don’t believe in anything now, do you, my King?”
“Not very much, no. Is this sick world we live in ready for atheism yet?”
For the first time in his life, Urgit saw doubt on the face of the Hierarch. “Atheism’s a clean place, Agachak,” he said, “a flat, gray, empty place where man makes his own destiny, and let the Gods go hang. I didn’t make them; they didn’t make me; and we’re quits on all of that. I wish them well, though.”
“This is unlike you, Urgit,” Agachak said.
“No, not really. I’m just tired of playing the clown.” He stretched out his leg and tossed his crown at his foot like a hoop. He caught it and kicked it back again. “You don’t really understand, do you, Agachak?” he said as he caught the crown out of midair.
The Hierarch of Rak Urga drew himself up. “This is not a request, Urgit. I’m not asking you.”
“Good. Because I’m not going.”
“I command you to go.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you realize to whom you’re talking?”
“Perfectly, old boy. You’re the same tiresome old Grolim who’s been boring me to tears ever since I inherited the throne from that fellow who used to chew on the carpets back in Rak Goska. Listen carefully, Agachak. I’ll use short words and simple sentences so that I don’t confuse you. I am not going to Mallorea. I’ve never had any intention of going to Mallorea. There’s nothing I want to see in Mallorea. There’s nothing I want to do there. I most definitely do not intend to put myself anywhere near Kal Zakath, and he’s gone back to Mal Zeth. Not only that, they have demons in Mallorea. Have you ever seen a demon, Agachak?”
“Once or twice,” the Hierarch replied sullenly.
“And you’re still going to Mallorea? Agachak, you’re as crazy as Taur Urgas was.”
“I can make you king of all of Angarak.”
“I don’t want to be king of all of Angarak. I don’t even want to be King of Cthol Murgos. All I want is to be left alone to contemplate the horror that’s about to descend on me.”
“Your marriage, you mean?” Agachak’s face grew sly. “You could evade that by coming to Mallorea with me.”
“Have I been going too fast for you, Agachak? A wife is bad enough. Demons are much worse. Did anybody ever tell you what that thing did to Chabat?” Urgit shuddered.
“I can protect you.”
Urgit laughed scornfully. “You, Agachak? You couldn’t even protect yourself. Even Polgara had to have help from a God to deal with that monster. Do you plan to resurrect Torak to give you a hand? Or maybe you could appeal to Aldur. He’s the one who helped Polgara. I don’t really think He’d like you, though, I don’t even like you, and I’ve known you all my life.”
“You go too far, Urgit.”
“No. Not far enough, Agachak. For centuries—eons, probably—you Grolims have held the upper hand in Cthol Murgos, but that was when Ctuchik was still alive, and Ctuchik is dead now. You did know about that, didn’t you, old boy? He tried his hand against Belgarath, and Belgarath disassembled him right down to the floor. I may be the only Murgo alive who’s ever met Belgarath and lived to talk about it. We’re actually on fairly good terms. Would you like to meet him? I could probably arrange an introduction, if you’d like.”
Agachak visibly shrank back.
“Much better, Agachak,” Urgit said smoothly. “I’m delighted at your grasp of the realities of the situation. Now, I’m certain that you can raise your hand and wiggle your fingers at me, but now I know how to recognize that sort of thing. I watched Belgarion rather closely while we were trotting across Cthaka last winter. If your hand moves even a fraction of an inch, you’re going to get about a bushel basket full of arrows right in die middle of the back. The archers are already in place, and their bows are already drawn. Give it some thought, Agachak—while you’re leaving.”
“This is not like you, Urgit,” Agachak said, his nostrils white with fury.
“I know. Delightful, isn’t it? You may go now, Agachak.”
The Hierarch spun on his heel and started toward the door.
“Oh, by the way, old boy,” Urgit added. “I’ve had news that our dear brother Gethel of Thulldom recently died— probably something he ate. Thulls eat almost anything that swims, flies, crawls, or spawns on rotten meat. It’s a pity, actually. Gethel was one of the few people in the world I could bully. Anyway, he’s been succeeded on the throne by his half-wit son, Nathel. I've met Nathel. He has the mentality of an earthworm, but he’s a true Angarak king. Why don’t you see if he wants to go to Mallorea with you? It might take you a while to explain to him where Mallorea is, since I mink he believes mat the world is flat, but I have every confidence in you, Agachak.” Urgit flipped his hand at the fuming Hierarch. “Run along now,” he said. “Go back to your temple and gut a few more Grolims. Maybe you can even get the fires started in your sanctum again. If nothing else, I’m sure it will calm your nerves.”
Agachak stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Urgit doubled over, pounding on the arm of his throne and howling in glee.
“Don’t you think you might have gone just a bit too far, my son?” Lady Tamazin asked from the shadowy alcove where she had been listening.
“Perhaps so, mother,” he agreed, still laughing, “but wasn’t it fun?”
She limped into the light and smiled fondly at him. “Yes, Urgit,” she agreed, “it was, but don’t push Agachak too far. He can be a dangerous enemy.”
“I've got lots of enemies, mother,” Urgit said, tugging unconsciously at his long, pointed nose. “Most of the people in the world hate me, but I’ve learned to live with that. It’s not as if I had to run for reelection, you know.”
The bleak-faced seneschal, Oskatat, also came out of the shadowed alcove. “What are we going to do with you, Urgit?” he said wryly. “What did Belgarion teach you, anyway?”
“He taught me how to be a king, Oskatat. I may not last very long, but by the Gods, as long as I’m here, I’m going to be a king. They’re going to kill me anyway, so I might as well enjoy myself while I can.”
His mother sighed, then raised her hands helplessly. “There’s no reasoning with him, Oskatat,” she said.
“I suppose not, my Lady Tamazin,” the gray-haired man agreed.
“Princess Praia wants to speak with you,” Tamazin said to her son.
“I am at her immediate disposal,” Urgit said. “Not only immediate, but perpetual, if I understand the terms of the marriage contract.”
“Be nice,” Tamazin chided.
“Yes, mother.”
The Princess Praia of the House of Cthan swept in through a side door. She wore a riding habit consisting of a calf-length black skirt, a white satin blouse and polished boots. Her heels hit the marble floor like little hammers. Her long black hair swayed at her back, and her eyes were dangerous. She held a parchment scroll in her hands.
“Will you assist me, my Lord Oskatat?” Lady Tamazin asked, holding one hand out to the seneschal.
“Of course, my Lady,” he replied, offering his arm to Urgit’s mother with tender solicitude. The two of them withdrew.
“Now what?” Urgit warily asked his bride-to-be.
“Am I disturbing your Majesty?” Praia asked. She did not bother to curtsy. The princess had changed. She was no longer a properly submissive Murgo lady. The time she had spent with Queen Ce’Nedra and the Margravine Liselle had definitely corrupted her, Urgit felt, and the unwholesome influence of Polgara the sorceress showed in her every move and gesture. She was, however, Urgit concluded, absolutely adorable now. Her black eyes flashed, her delicate white skin seemed to reflect her mood, and her wealth of black hair seemed almost alive as it flowed down her back. Rather surprisingly, Urgit found that he was very fond of her.
“You always disturb me, my beloved,” he answered her question, spreading his arms extravagantly.
“Stop that,” she snapped. “You sound like your brother.”
“It runs in the family.”
“Did you put this in here?” she demanded, waving the scroll at him like a club.
“Did I put what in where?”
“This.” She unrolled the scroll. “ ‘It is agreed that Princess Praia of the House of Cthan shall be his majesty’s most favored wife,’ “ she read. “Most favored wife” came out from between clenched teeth.
“What’s wrong with that?” he asked, a little surprised at the girl’s vehemence.
“The implication is that there will be others.”
“It’s the custom, Praia. I didn’t make the rules.”
“You’re the king. Make different rules.”
“Me?” He swallowed hard.
“There will be no other wives, Urgit—or royal concubines.” Her usually gentle voice seemed to crackle. “You are mine, and I’m not going to share you with anybody.”
“Do you really feel that way?” he asked, a bit amazed.
“Yes, I do.” She lifted her chin.
“Nobody’s ever felt that way about me before.”
“Get used to it.” Her voice was flat and had the overtone of daggers in it.
“We’ll amend the passage,” he agreed quickly. “I don’t need more than one wife anyway.”
“Definitely not, my Lord. A very wise decision.”
“Naturally. All royal decisions are wise. It says so in the history books.”
She tried very hard not to smile, but finally gave up, laughed, and hurled herself into his arms. “Oh, Urgit,” she said burrowing her face into his neck, “I do love you.”
“You do? What an amazing thing.” Suddenly an idea came to him, and its sheer purity almost blinded him. “What’s your feeling about a double wedding, love?” he asked her.
She pulled her face back from where she had been grazing on his neck. “I don’t quite follow you,” she admitted.
“I’m the king, right?”
“A little more than you were before you met Belgarion,” she admitted.
He let that pass. “I’ve got this female relative,” he said. “I’m going to be busy being married.”
“Very busy, my love,” she agreed.
He coughed nervously. “Anyway,” he rushed on. “I’m not really going to have all that much time to look after this certain female relative, am I? Wouldn’t it be better if I married her off to some deserving fellow who’s always held her in the highest regard?”
“I don’t quite follow you, Urgit. I didn’t think you had any female relatives.”
“Only one, my princess,” he grinned. “Only one.”
She stared at him. “Urgit!” she gasped.
He gave her a rat-faced little grin. “I’m the king,” he said grandly. “I can do anything I want to do, and my mother’s been alone for far too long, wouldn’t you say? Oskatat’s loved her since she was a girl, and she’s at least fond of him—although I think it might go a little farther than that. If I order them to get married, they’d have to do it, wouldn’t they?”
“That’s absolutely brilliant, Urgit,” she marveled.
“It comes from my Drasnian heritage,” he admitted modestly. “Kheldar himself couldn’t have come up with a neater scheme.”
“It’s perfect,” she almost squealed. “This way I won’t have a mother-in-law interfering when I start changing you.”
“Changing?”
“Just a few little things, love,” she said sweetly. “You have a few bad habits, and your taste in clothing is terrible. Whatever possessed you to start wearing purple?”
“Anything else?”
“I’ll bring the list with me next time I visit.”
Urgit began to have second thoughts at that point.
His Imperial Majesty, Kal Zakath of Mallorea, had a busy morning that day. Most of the time, he was closeted with Brador, Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs, in a small, blue-draped office on the second floor of the palace.
“It’s definitely subsiding, your Majesty,” Brador reported when the subject of the plague came up. “There hasn’t been a new case in the past week, and a surprising number of people are actually recovering. The plan of walling off each separate district of the city seems to have worked.”
“Good,” Zakath said. He turned to another matter. “Is there any further word out of Karanda?”
Brador shuffled through the papers he was holding. “Mengha hasn’t been seen for several weeks now, your Majesty.” The Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs smiled briefly. “That particular plague also seems to be subsiding. The demons appear to have left, and the fanatics are losing heart.” He tapped one of the papers against his pursed lips. “This is only an educated guess, your Majesty, since I can’t get any agents into the region, but the turmoil appears to have shifted to the east coast. Shortly after Mengha disappeared, large bodies of Karandese irregular troops, along with Urvon’s Temple Guardsmen and his Chandim, crossed the Mountains of Zamad, and all communications out of Voresebo and Rengel have broken down.”
“Urvon?” Zakath asked.
“It appears so, your Majesty. I’d say that the Disciple is moving into position for a final confrontation with Zandramas. One is tempted to suggest that we just let them fight it out. I don’t think that the world would miss either of them very much.”
A faint, icy smile touched Zakath’s lips. “You’re right, Brador,” he said. “It is tempting, but I don’t think we should encourage that sort of thing—just as a matter of policy. Those principalities are a part of the empire and they’re entitled to imperial protection. It might start some ugly rumors if we were to just stand idly by and let Urvon and Zandramas rip up the countryside. If anybody brings military force to bear in Mallorea, it’s going to be me.” He leafed through the papers on the table in front of him, picked one up, and frowned at it. “I suppose we’d better deal with this,” he said. “Where have you got Baron Vasca?”
“He’s in a cell with a splendid view,” Brador replied. “He can look out at the executioner’s block. I’m sure it’s been most educational.”
Zakath remembered something then. “Demote him,” he said.
“That’s a novel word for the procedure,” Brador murmured.
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Zakath said with another chill smile. “Persuade him to tell us where he hid all the money he extorted from the people he dealt with. We’ll transfer the funds to the imperial treasury.” He turned to look at the large map on the wall of his study. “Southern Ebal, I think.”
“Your Majesty?” Brador looked puzzled.
“Assign him to the post of Minister of Trade in southern Ebal.”
“There isn’t any trade in southern Ebal, your Majesty. There aren’t any seaports, and the only thing they raise in the Temba marshes is mosquitoes.”
“Vasca’s inventive. I’m sure he’ll come up with something.”
“Then you don’t want him—” Brador made a suggestive gesture across his throat with one hand.
“No,” Zakath said. “I’m going to try something Belgarion suggested. I may need Vasca again someday and I don’t want to have to dig him up in pieces.” A faintly pained look crossed the Emperor’s face. “Has there been any word about him?” he asked.
“Vasca? I just—”
“No. Belgarion.”
“They were seen shortly after they left Mal Zeth, your Majesty. They were traveling with Prince Kheldar’s Nadrak partner, Yarblek. Not long after that, Yarblek sailed for Gar og Nadrak.”
“It was all a ruse, then,” Zakath sighed. “All Belgarion really wanted was to get back to his own country. That wild story of theirs was made up out of whole cloth.” Zakath passed a weary hand before his eyes. “I really liked that young man, Brador,” he said sadly. “I should have known better.”
“Belgarion didn’t go back to the West, your Majesty,” Brador informed him, “at least not with Yarblek. We always check that fellow’s ships rather closely. So far as we’re able to determine, Belgarion has not left Mallorea.”
Zakath leaned back with a genuine smile on his face. “I’m not sure why, but that makes me feel better. The thought that he’d betrayed me was quite painful for some reason. Any idea about where he’s gone?”
“There was some turmoil in Katakor, your Majesty—up around Ashaba. It was the sort of thing one might associate with Belgarion—strange lights in the sky, explosions, that sort of thing.”
Zakath laughed out loud, a delighted kind of laugh. “He can be a little ostentatious when he’s irritated, can’t he? He blew the whole wall out of my bedchamber in Rak Hagga one time.”
“Oh?”
“He was trying to make a point.”
There was a respectful rap on the door.
“Come,” Zakath replied shortly.
“General Atesca has arrived, your Majesty,” one of the red-garbed guards at the door reported.
“Good. Send him in.”
The broken-nosed general entered and saluted smartly. “Your Majesty,” he said. His red uniform was travel-stained.
“You made good time, Atesca,” Zakath said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you, your Majesty. We had a good following wind, and the sea was calm.”
“How many men did you bring with you?”
“About fifty thousand.”
“How many men do we have now?” Zakath asked Brador.
“Something in excess of a million, your Majesty.”
“That’s a solid number. Let’s stage up the troops and get ready to move.” He rose and went to the window. The leaves had begun to turn, filling die garden below with bright reds and yellows. “I want to quiet things down on the east coast,” he said, “and it’s turning into autumn now, so I think we want to move the troops before the weather starts to deteriorate. We’ll go on down to Maga Renn and send out scouting parties from there. If the circumstances are right, we’ll march. If not, we can wait at Maga Renn for more troops to come back from Cthol Murgos.”
“I’ll get started on that immediately, your Majesty.” Brador bowed and quietly left the room.
“Sit down, Atesca,” the Emperor said. “What’s happening in Cthol Murgos?”
“We’re going to try to hold the cities we’ve already taken, your Majesty,” Atesca reported, drawing up a chair. “We’ve gathered the bulk of our forces near Rak Cthan. They’re waiting there for transport to bring them back to Mallorea.”
“Any chance that Urgit might try a counterattack?”
“I wouldn’t think so, your Majesty. I don’t believe he’ll gamble his army in open country. Of course, you never know what a Murgo might do.”
“That’s true,” Zakath agreed. He kept his knowledge that Urgit was not actually a Murgo to himself. He leaned back. “You captured Belgarion for me once, Atesca,” he said.
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do it again. He managed to get away. Careless of me, I suppose, but I had a lot on my mind at the time.”
“We’ll just have to pick him up again then, won’t we, your Majesty?”
The Alorn Council met at Boktor that year. Somewhat uncharacteristically, Queen Porenn took charge. The tiny blond queen of Drasnia, dressed in her usual black, walked quietly to the head of the table in the red-draped council chamber in the palace and took the chair normally reserved for the Rivan King. The others stared at her in astonishment.
“Gentlemen,” she began crisply, “I recognize the fact that this flies in the face of tradition, but our time is limited. Certain information has come to me that I think you should be made aware of. We have decisions to make and very little time in which to make them.”
Emperor Varana leaned back in his chair with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “We will now pause while the Alorn kings go into collective apoplexy,” he said.
King Anheg scowled at the curly-haired emperor for a moment, then laughed. “No, Varana,” he said wryly. “We all got that out of our systems when Rhodar persuaded us to follow Ce’Nedra into Mishrak ac Thull. It’s Porenn’s house; let her run things.”
“Why, thank you, Anheg.” The Queen of Drasnia actually sounded a little surprised. She paused, gathering her thoughts. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, our gathering this year includes kings who would not normally attend. The matter before us, however, concerns us all. I’ve recently received communications from Belgarath, Belgarion, and the others.”
There was an excited stir in the room. Porenn held up one hand. “They’re in Mallorea, close on the trail of the abductor of Belgarion’s son.”
“That young man can move faster than the wind sometimes,” King Fulrach of Sendaria observed. The years had given Fulrach a tendency toward portliness, and his brown beard was now streaked with silver.
“How did they get to Mallorea?” King Cho-Hag asked in his quiet voice.
“It seems that they were captured by Kal Zakath,” Porenn replied. “Garion and Zakath became friends, and Zakath took them with him when he returned to Mal Zeth.”
“Zakath actually became friends with somebody?” King
Drosta of Gar og Nadrak demanded incredulously in his shrill voice. “Impossible!”
“Garion has a way about him, sometimes,” Hettar murmured.
“The friendship, however, may have run its course,” Porenn continued. “Late one night, Garion and his friends slipped out of Mal Zeth without saying good-bye to the Emperor.”
“With the whole imperial army on their trail, I’d imagine,” Varana added.
“No,” Porenn disagreed. “Zakath can’t leave Mal Zeth just now. Tell them, Yarblek.”
Silk’s rangy partner rose to his feet. “They’ve got plague in Mal Zeth,” he said. “Zakath has sealed up the city. No one can go in or out.”
“Prithee,” Mandorallen asked, “how then was it possible for our friends to make good their escape?”
“I’d picked up an itinerant comedian,” Yarblek said sourly. “I didn’t think much of him, but he amused Vella. She’s fond of bawdy stories.”
“Be careful, Yarblek,” the Nadrak dancer warned. “You still have your health, but I can fix that for you.” She put one hand suggestively on a dagger hilt. Vella wore a stunning lavender gown. There were a few concessions to Nadrak customs in her dress, however. She still wore polished leather boots—with daggers in their tops—and the customary wide leather belt about her waist was still adorned with similar knives. The men in the room, however, had all been surreptitiously eyeing her since she had entered. No matter how she was dressed, Vella still had the power to attract every eye.
“Anyway,” Yarblek hurried on, “the fellow knew of a tunnel that runs from the palace to an abandoned quarry outside the city. It got us all out of Mal Zeth with no one the wiser.”
“Zakath won’t like that,” Drosta said. “He hates to let people go once he’s caught them.”
“There’s been an uprising of some sort in the Seven Kingdoms of Karanda in northern Mallorea,” Porenn went on. “I understand that there are demons involved.”
“Demons?” Varana said skeptically. “Oh, come now, Porenn.”
“That’s what Belgarath reports.”
“Belgarath has a warped sense of humor, sometimes,” Varana scoffed. “He was probably just joking. There’s no such thing as a demon.”
“You’re wrong, Varana,” King Drosta said with uncharacteristic soberness. “I saw one once—up in Morindland when I was a boy.”
“What did it look like?” Varana did not sound convinced.
Drosta shuddered. “You really don’t want to know.”
“At any rate,” Porenn said, “Zakath has ordered the bulk of his army back from Cthol Murgos to put down this uprising. It won’t be very long until he floods the entirety of Karanda with troops, and that’s the area where our friends are. That’s why I’ve called this meeting. What are we going to do about it?”
Lelldorin of Wildantor came to his feet. “We’ll need fast horses,” he said to Hettar.
“Why?” Hettar asked.
“To get to their aid, of course.” The young Asturian’s eyes were flashing with excitement.
“Uh—Lelldorin,” Barak said gently, “the Sea of the East is between here and Mallorea.”
“Oh,” Lelldorin said, looking slightly abashed. “I didn’t know that. We’ll need a boat, too, won’t we?”
Barak and Hettar exchanged a long look. “Ship,” Barak corrected absently.
“What?”
“Never mind, Lelldorin,” Barak sighed.
“We can’t,” King Anheg said flatly. “Even if we could get through, we’d destroy Garion’s chances of winning in the fight with the Child of Dark. That’s what the Seeress told us at Rheon, remember?”
“But this is different,” Lelldorin protested, tears standing in his eyes.
“No,” Anheg said. “It’s not. This is exactly what we were warned against. We can’t go near them until this is over.”
“But—”
“Lelldorin,” Anheg said. “I want to go as much as you do, but we can’t. Would Garion thank us if we were responsible for the loss of his son?”
Mandorallen rose to his feet and began to pace up and down, his armor clinking. “Methinks thy reasoning is aright, your Majesty,” he said to Anheg. “We may not join with our friends, lest our presence imperil their quest, and we would all give up our lives to prevent that. We may, however, journey straightaway to Mallorea and, without going near them, place ourselves between them and the hordes of Kal Zakath. We can thereby bring the unfriendly advance of the Malloreans to a precipitous halt and thus allow Garion to escape.”
Barak stared at the great knight, whose face shone with unthinking zeal. Then he groaned and buried his face in his hands.
“There, there,” Hettar murmured, patting the big man sympathetically on the shoulder.
King Fulrach rubbed at his beard. “Why does it seem that we've done this before?” he asked. “It’s the same as last time. We have to create a diversion to help our friends get through. Any ideas?”
“Invade Mallorea,” Drosta said eagerly.
“Sack Zakath’s coastline,” Anheg said just as eagerly.
Porenn sighed.
“We could invade Cthol Murgos,” Cho-Hag suggested thoughtfully.
“Yes!” Hettar agreed fiercely.
Cho-Hag held up his hand. “Only as a ruse, my son,” he said. “Zakath has committed forces to the conquest of Cthol Murgos. If the armies of the West moved into that region, he’d almost be obliged to try to counter us, wouldn’t he?”
Varana slid lower in his chair. “It’s got possibilities,” he admitted, “but it’s already autumn, and the mountains of Cthol Murgos are brutal in the winter. It’s a bad time to move troops around down there. An army can’t move very fast on frozen feet. I think we might be able to accomplish the same thing by diplomacy—without risking a single toe.”
“Trust a Tolnedran to be devious,” Anheg growled.
“Do you like freezing, Anheg?” Varana asked.
Anheg shrugged. “It’s something to do in the wintertime,” he said.
Varana rolled his eyes ceilingward. “Alorns,” he said.
“All right,” Anheg said by way of apology. “I was only joking. What’s this brilliantly devious plan of yours?”
Varana looked across the room at Javelin. “How good is the Mallorean intelligence service, Margrave Khendon?” he asked bluntly.
Javelin rose to his feet, straightening his pearl-gray doublet. “By himself, Brador is very good, your Imperial Majesty,” he replied. “His people are sometimes awkward and obvious, but he has a lot of them. He has unlimited money to work with.” He cast a slightly reproachful glance at Queen Porenn.
“Be nice, Khendon,” she murmured. “I’m on a tight budget.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed with a faint smile, then straightened and spoke in a crisp, businesslike manner. “Mallorean intelligence is crude by our standards, but Brador has the resources to put as many agents in the field as he needs. Neither Drasnian nor Tolnedran intelligence has that luxury. Brador sometimes loses a hundred people in the process, but he can usually get the information.” He sniffed disdainfully. “I prefer a neater type of operation, personally.”
“Then this Brador has operatives in Rak Urga?” Varana pressed.
“Almost certainly,” Javelin replied. “I have four in the Drojim Palace at this time myself—and your Majesty’s service has two that I know of.”
“I didn’t know that,” Varana said with an innocent look.
“Really?”
Varana laughed. “All right,” he went on, “what would Zakath do if word reached Mat Zeth that the Kingdoms of the West were about to conclude a military alliance with the King of Murgodom?”
Javelin began to pace up and down. “It’s very hard to know exactly what Zakath will do in any given situation,” he mused. “A lot depends on just how serious his domestic problems are, but an alliance between the Murgos and the West would pose a major threat to Mallorea. He’d almost have to come back immediately and make an all-out effort to crush the Murgos before our troops could reinforce them.”
“Ally ourselves with the Murgos?” Hettar exclaimed. “Never!”
“Nobody’s suggesting a real alliance, my Lord Hettar,” Kail, the son of the Rivan Warder, told him, “All we want to do is distract Zakath for long enough to give Belgarion the time to slip past him. The negotiations can drag on and then fall apart later on.”
“Oh,” Hettar said, looking a bit abashed, “that’s different, then—I suppose.”
“All right,” Varana went on crisply. “Perhaps we can persuade Zakath that we’re about to conclude an alliance with Urgit—if we do it right. Javelin, have your people kill a few Mallorean agents in the Drojim Palace—not all of them, mind you—just enough to convince Mal Zeth that this is a serious diplomatic effort.”
“I understand perfectly, your Majesty.” Javelin smiled. “I have just the man—a recently recruited Nyissan assassin named Issus.”
“Good. A possible alliance will serve the same purpose as a real one. We can distract Zakath without the loss of a single man—unless we count this Issus fellow.”
“Don’t worry about Issus, your Majesty,” Javelin assured him. “He’s a survivor.”
“I think we’re missing something,” Anheg growled. “I wish Rhodar were here.”
“Yes,” Porenn agreed in a voice near to tears.
“Sorry, Porenn,” Anheg said, engulfing her tiny hand in his huge one, “but you know what I mean.”
“I have a diplomat in Rak Urga,” Varana continued. “He can make the overtures to King Urgit. Do we know anything useful about the King of the Murgos?”
“Yes,” Porenn said firmly. “He’ll be amenable to the suggestion.”
“How do you know, your Majesty?”
Porenn hesitated. “I’d rather not say,” she said with a quick glance at Javelin. “Just take my word for it.”
“Of course,” Varana agreed.
Vella rose and walked to the window, her satin gown filling the room with its music. “You people of the West always want to complicate things,” she said critically. “Zakath’s your problem. Send somebody to Mal Zeth with a sharp knife.”
“You should have been a man, Vella.” Anheg laughed.
She turned and looked at him with smoldering eyes. “Do you really think so?” she asked.
“Well,” he hesitated, “maybe not.”
She leaned disconsolately against the window casing. “I wish I had my juggler here to entertain me,” she said. “Politics always give me a headache.” She sighed. “I wonder whatever happened to him.”
Porenn smiled, watching the girl intently and remembering the sudden insight she had when the Nadrak girl first arrived in Boktor. “Would you be terribly disappointed to find out that your juggler was not who he seemed to be?” she asked. “Belgarath mentioned him in his letter.”
Vella looked at her sharply.
“Belgarath would have known him, of course,” Porenn went on. “It was Beldin.”
Vella’s eyes went wide. “The hunchbacked sorcerer?” she exclaimed. “The one who can fly?”
Porenn nodded.
Vella said a number of things that no genteel lady would have said. Even King Anheg turned slightly pale at her choice of language. Then she drew a dagger and advanced on Yarblek, her breath hissing between her teeth. Mandorallen, clad all in steel, stepped in front of her, and Hettar and Barak seized her from behind and wrested the knife from her grasp.
“You idiot!” she shrieked at the cringing Yarblek. “You absolute idiot! You could have sold me to him!” Then she collapsed weeping against Barak’s fur-clad chest, even as Hettar prudently relieved her of her other three daggers.
Zandramas, the Child of Dark, stood gazing across a desolate valley where shattered villages smoked and smoldered under a lead-gray sky. The eyes of the Child of Dark were hooded, and she looked unseeing at the devastation spread before her. A lusty wail came from behind her, and she set her teeth together. “Feed him,” she said shortly.
“As you command, mistress,” the man with white eyes said quickly in a mollifying tone.
“Don’t patronize me, Naradas,” she snapped. “Just shut the brat up. I’m trying to think.”
It had been a long time. Zandramas had worked everything out so very carefully. Now she had come half around the world, and, despite her best efforts, the Godslayer with his dreadful sword was but a few days behind her.
The sword. The flaming sword. It filled her sleep with nightmares—and the burning face of the Child of Light terrified her even more. “How does he stay so close behind?” she exploded. “Will nothing slow him?”
She thrust her hands out in front of her and turned them palms-up. A myriad of tiny points of light seemed to swirl beneath the skin of her hands—swirling, glittering like a constellation of minuscule stars spinning in her very flesh. How long would it be until those constellations invaded her entire body and she ceased even to be human? How long until the dreadful spirit of the Child of Dark possessed her utterly? The child wailed again.
“I told you to shut him up!” she half shouted.
“At once, mistress,” Naradas said.
The Child of Dark went back to the contemplation of the starry universe enclosed in her flesh.
Eriond and Horse rode out at the first light before the others had awakened, cantering across a mountain meadow in the silvery dawn-light. It was good to ride alone, to feel the surge and flow of Horse’s muscles under him and the wind against his face without the distraction of talk.
He reined in atop a knoll to watch the sun rise, and that was good, too. He looked out over the sun-touched mountains of Zamad, drinking in the beauty and solitude, then gazed at the fair sight of the bright green fields and forests. Life was good here. The world was filled with loveliness and with people he loved.
How could Aldur have forced Himself to leave all this? Aldur had been the God who must have loved this world above all things, since He had refused to take a people to worship Him, but had chosen to spend His time alone to study this fair world. And now He could only visit occasionally in spiritual form.
But Aldur had accepted the sacrifice. Eriond sighed, feeling that perhaps no sacrifice could be truly unbearable if it were made out of love. Eriond took comfort in that belief.
Then he sighed again and slowly rode back toward the little lake and the cluster of tents where the others slept.