Vella was feeling melancholy. It was an unusual emotion for her, but she found that she rather liked it. There was much to be said for sweet, languorous sadness. She went with quiet dignity through the stately, marble-clad corridors of the palace in Boktor, and everyone gave way to her pensive expression. She chose not to consider the fact that her daggers may have played a certain part in this universal respect. In point of fact, Vella had not drawn a dagger on anyone for almost a week now—the last having been a slightly overfamiliar serving man who had mistaken her bluff camaraderie for an offer of a more intimate friendship. But she had not hurt him very much, and he had forgiven her almost before the bleeding had stopped.
Her destination that early morning was the sitting room of the Queen of Drasnia. In many ways Queen Porenn baffled Vella. She was petite and imperturbable. She carried no daggers and seldom raised her voice, but all of Drasnia and the other Alorn kingdoms held her in universal regard. Vella herself, not knowing exactly why, had acceded to the tiny queen’s suggestion that she should customarily garb herself in gowns of lavender satin. A gown is a cumbersome thing that tangles up one’s legs and confines one’s bosom. Always before, Vella had preferred black leather trousers, boots, and a leather vest. The garb was comfortable and utilitarian. It was sturdy, and yet it provided opportunities for Vella to display her attributes to those whom she wished to impress. Then, on special occasions, she had customarily donned an easily discardable wool dress and a fine diaphanous undergown of rose-colored Mallorean silk that clung to her as she danced. Satin, on the other hand, rustled disturbingly, but felt good against her skin, and it made Vella uncomfortably aware of the fact that there was more to being a woman than a couple pair of daggers and a willingness to use them.
She tapped lightly on Porenn’s door.
“Yes?” Porenn’s voice came to her.
Did the woman never sleep?
“It’s me, Porenn—Vella.”
“Come in, child.”
Vella set her teeth. She was not, after all, a child. She had been abroad in the world since her twelfth birthday. She had been sold—and bought—a half-dozen times, and she had been married for a brief, deliriously happy year to a lean Nadrak trapper named Tekk, whom she had loved to distraction. Porenn, however, seemed to prefer to look upon her as some half-gentled colt in sore need of training. In spite of herself, that thought softened Vella’s resentment. The little blond Queen of Drasnia had in some strange way become the mother she had never known, and thoughts of daggers and of being bought and sold slid away under the influence of that wise, gentle voice.
“Good morning, Vella,” Porenn said as the Nadrak girl entered her room. “Would you like some tea?” Although the queen always wore black in public, her dressing gown that morning was of the palest rose, and she looked somehow very vulnerable in that soft color.
“Hullo, Porenn,” Vella said. “No tea, thanks.” She flung herself into a chair beside the blond queen’s divan.
“Don’t flop, Vella,” Porenn told her. “Ladies don’t flop.”
“I’m not a lady.”
“Not yet, perhaps, but I’m working on it.”
“Why are you wasting your time on me, Porenn?”
“Nothing worthwhile is ever a waste of time.”
“Me? Worthwhile?”
“More than you could possibly know. You’re early this morning. Is something troubling you?”
“I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve been having the strangest dreams lately.”
“Don’t let dreams bother you, child. Dreams are sometimes the past, sometimes the future, but mostly they’re only that—dreams.”
“Please don’t call me ‘child,’ Porenn,” Vella objected. “I think if we got right down to it, I’m almost as old as you are.”
“In years, perhaps, but years aren’t the only way to measure time.”
There was a discreet rap at the door.
“Yes?” Porenn replied.
“It’s me, your Majesty,” a familiar voice said.
“Come in, Margrave Khendon,” the queen said.
Javelin had not changed since Vella had last seen him. He was still bone-thin and aristocratic and had a sardonically amused twist to his lips. He wore, as was his custom, a pearl-gray doublet and tight-fitting black hose. His skinny shanks were not shown to any particular advantage by the latter. He bowed rather extravagantly. “Your Majesty,” he greeted the queen, “and my Lady Vella.”
“Don’t be insulting, Javelin,” Vella retorted. “I don’t have a title, so don’t ‘my Lady’ me.”
“Haven’t you told her yet?” Javelin mildly asked the queen.
“I’m saving it for her birthday.”
“What’s this?” Vella demanded.
“Be patient, dear,” Porenn told her. “You’ll find out about your title all in due time.”
“I don’t need a Drasnian title.”
“Everybody needs a title, dear—even if it’s only ‘ma’am.’ “
“Has she always been like this?” Vella bluntly asked the Chief of Drasnian Intelligence.
“She was a little more ingenuous when she still had her baby teeth,” Javelin replied urbanely, “but she got to be more fun when she developed her fangs.”
“Be nice, Khendon,” Porenn told him. “How was Rak Urga?”
“Ugly—but then, most Murgo cities are.”
“And how is King Urgit?”
“Newly married, your Majesty, and a little distracted by the novelty of it.”
Porenn made a face. “I didn’t send a gift,” she fretted.
“I took the liberty of attending to that, your Majesty,” Javelin said. “A rather nice silver service I picked up in Tol Honeth—at a bargain price, of course. I have this limited budget, you understand.”
She gave him a long, unfriendly look.
“I left the bill with your chamberlain,” he added with not even the faintest trace of embarrassment.
“How are the negotiations going?”
“Surprisingly well, my queen. The King of the Murgos seems not to have yet succumbed to the hereditary disorder of the House of Urga. He’s very shrewd, actually.”
“I somehow thought he might be,” Porenn replied just a bit smugly.
“You’re keeping secrets, Porenn,” Javelin accused.
“Yes. Women do that from time to time. Are the Mallorean agents in the Drojim keeping abreast of things?”
“Oh, yes.” Javelin smiled. “Sometimes we have to be a little obvious in order to make sure that they’re getting the point, but they’re more or less fully aware of the progress of the negotiations. We seem to be making them a bit apprehensive.”
“You made good time on your return voyage.”
Javelin shuddered slightly. “King Anheg put a ship at our disposal. Her captain is that pirate Greldik-I made the mistake of telling him I was in a hurry. The passage through the Bore was ghastly.”
There was another polite knock on the door.
“Yes?” Porenn answered.
A servant opened the door. “The Nadrak Yarblek is here again, your Majesty,” he reported.
“Show him in, please.”
Yarblek had a tight look on his face that Vella recognized all too well. Her owner was in many respects a transparent man. He pulled off his shabby fur cap. “Good morning, Porenn,” he said without ceremony, tossing the cap into a corner. “Have you got anything to drink? I’ve been in the saddle for five days and I’m perishing of thirst.”
“Over there.” Porenn pointed at a sideboard near the window.
Yarblek grunted, crossed the room, and filled a large goblet from a crystal decanter. He took a long drink. “Javelin,” he said then, “have you got any people in Yar Nadrak?”
“A few,” Javelin admitted cautiously.
“You’d better have them keep an eye on Drosta. He’s up to something.”
“He’s always up to something.”
“That’s no lie, but this might be a little more serious. He’s reopened lines of communication with Mal Zeth. He and Zakath haven’t been on speaking terms since he changed sides at Thull Mardu, but now they’re talking again. I don’t like the smell of it.”
“Are you sure? None of my people have reported it.”
“They’re probably in the palace, then. Drosta doesn’t conduct serious business there. Have them go to a riverside tavern in the thieves’ quarter. It’s called the One-Eyed Dog. Drosta goes there to amuse himself. The emissary from Mal Zeth’s been meeting with him in an upstairs room there— that’s when Drosta can drag himself away from the girls.”
“I’ll put some people on it right away. Could you get any idea at all of what they’re discussing?”
Yarblek shook his head and dropped wearily into a chair.
“Drosta’s ordered his guards to keep me out of the place.” He looked at Vella. “You’re looking a little pecky this morning,” he observed. “Did you drink too much last night?”
“I almost never get drunk any more,” she told him.
“I knew it was a mistake to leave you here in Boktor,” he said glumly. “Porenn’s a corrupting influence. Did you get over your irritation with me yet?”
“I suppose so. It’s not really your fault that you’re stupid.”
“Thanks.” He looked her up and down appraisingly. “I like the dress,” he told her. “It makes you look more like a woman, for a change.”
“Did you ever have any doubts, Yarblek?” she asked him archly.
Adiss, the Chief Eunuch in the palace of Eternal Salmissra, received the summons early that morning and he approached the throne room with fear and trembling. The queen had been in a peculiar mood of late, and Adiss painfully remembered the fate of his predecessor. He entered the dimly lit throne room and prostrated himself before the dais.
“The Chief Eunuch approaches the throne,” the adoring chorus intoned in unison. Even though he himself had been until recently a member of that chorus, Adiss found their mouthing of the obvious irritating.
The queen dozed on her divan, her mottled coils moving restlessly with the dry hiss of scales rubbing against each other. She opened her soulless serpent’s eyes and looked at him, her forked tongue flickering. “Well?” she said peevishly in the dusty whisper that always chilled his blood.
“Y-you summoned me, Divine Salmissra,” he faltered.
“I’m aware of that, you idiot. Do not irritate me, Adiss. I’m on the verge of going into molt, and that always makes me short-tempered. I asked you to find out what the Alorns are up to. I am waiting for your report.”
“I haven’t been able to find out very much, my Queen.”
“That is not the answer I wanted to hear, Adiss,” she told him dangerously. “Is it possible that the duties of your office are beyond your capabilities?”
Adiss began to tremble violently. “I-I’ve sent for Droblek, your Majesty—the Drasnian Port Authority here in Sthiss Tor. I thought he might be able to shed some light on the situation.”
“Perhaps so.” Her tone was distant, and she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. “Summon the Tolnedran Ambassador as well. Whatever the Alorns are doing in Cthol Murgos also involves Varana.”
“Forgive me, Divine Salmissra,” Adiss said, feeling a trifle confused, “but why should the activities of the Alorns and Tolnedrans concern us?”
She swung her head about slowly, her sinuous neck weaving in the air. “Are you a total incompetent, Adiss?” she asked him. “We may not like it, but Nyissa is a part of the world, and we must always know what our neighbors are doing—and why.” She paused, her tongue nervously tasting the air. “There is a game of some kind afoot, and I want to find out exactly what it is before I decide whether or not to become involved in it.” She paused again. “Have you ever found out what happened to that one-eyed fellow, Issus?”
“Yes, your Majesty. He was recruited by Drasnian intelligence. At last report, he was in Rak Urga with the Alorn negotiators.”
“How very curious. I think this entire business is reaching the point where I must have detailed information—and very, very soon. Do not fail me, Adiss. Your position is not all that secure, you know. Now you may kiss me.” She lowered her head, and he stumbled to the dais to touch his cringing lips to her cold forehead.
“Very well, Adiss,” she said. “Leave now.” And she went back to gazing at her reflection in the mirror.
King Nathel of Mishrak ac Thull was a slack-lipped, dull-eyed young man with lank, mud-colored hair and a profound lack of anything even remotely resembling intelligence. His royal robes were spotted and wrinkled, and his crown did not fit him. It rested atop his ears and quite often slid down over his eyes.
Agachak, the cadaverous Hierarch of Rak Urgo, could not stand the young King of the Thulls, but he forced himself to be civil to him during their current discussions. Civility was not one of Agachak’s strong points. He much preferred peremptory commands backed up by threats of dreadful retribution for failure to comply, but a careful assessment of Nathel’s personality had persuaded him that the Thull would collapse on the spot if he were suddenly given any kind of threat or ultimatum. And so it was that Agachak was forced to rely on cajolery and wheedling instead.
“The prophecy clearly states, your Majesty,” he tried again, “that whichever king accompanies me to the place of the meeting will become Overking of all of Angarak.”
“Does that mean I get Cthol Murgos and Gar og Nadrak, too?” Nathel asked, a faint glimmer coming into his uncomprehending eyes.
“Absolutely, your Majesty,” Agachak assured him, “and Mallorea as well.”
“Won’t that make Kal Zakath unhappy with me? I wouldn’t want him to feel that way. He had my father flogged once, did you know that? He was going to crucify him, but there weren’t any trees around.”
“Yes, I’d heard about that, but you don’t have to worry. Zakath would have to genuflect to you.”
“Zakath genuflect—to me?” Nathel laughed. It was a sound frighteningly devoid of thought.
“He would have no choice, your Majesty. If he were to refuse, the New God would blast him to atoms on the spot.”
“What’s an atom?”
Agachak ground his teeth. “A very small piece, your Majesty,” he explained.
“I wouldn’t mind making Urgit and Drosta bow to me,” Nathel confessed, “but I don’t know about Zakath. Urgit and Drosta think they’re so smart. I’d like to take them down a peg or two. Zakath, though—I don’t know about that.” His eyes brightened again. “That means I’d get all the gold in Cthol Murgos and Gar og Nadrak, doesn’t it? And I could make them dig it out of the ground for me, too.” His crown slipped down over his eyes again, and he tilted his head back so that he could peer out from under its rim.
“And you’d get all the gold in Mallorea, too, and the jewels, and the silks and carpets—and they’d even give you your own elephant to ride.”
“What’s an elephant?”
“It’s a very large animal, your Majesty.”
“Bigger than a horse, even?”
“Much bigger. Besides, you’d also get Tolnedra and you know how much money they’ve got. You’d be the king of the world.”
“Even bigger than an ox? I’ve seen some awful big oxes sometimes.”
“Ten times as big.”
Nathel smiled happily. “I bet that would make people sit up and take notice.”
“Absolutely, your Majesty.”
“What is it I have to do again?”
“You must go with me to the Place Which Is No More.”
“That’s the part I don’t understand. How can we go there if it’s not there any more?”
“The prophecy will reveal that to us in time, your Majesty.”
“Oh. I see. Have you got any idea about where it is?”
“The clues I’ve been getting indicate that it’s somewhere in Mallorea.”
Nathel’s face suddenly fell. “Now that’s a real shame,” he said petulantly.
“I don’t quite—”
“I’d really like to go with you, Agachak. Truly I would— what with all the gold and carpets and silks and stuff—and making Urgit and Drosta and maybe even Zakath bow down to me and all, but I just can’t.”
“I don’t understand. Why not?”
“I’m not allowed to leave home. My mother’d punish me something awful if I did. You know how that goes. I couldn’t even think of going as far away as Mallorea.”
“But you’re the king.”
“That doesn’t change a thing. I still do what mother says. She tells everybody that I’m the best boy ever when it conms to that.”
Agachak resisted a powerful urge to change this half-wit into a toad or perhaps a jellyfish. “Why don’t I talk with your mother?” he suggested. “I’m sure I can persuade her to give you her permission.”
“Why, that’s a real, real good idea, Agachak. If mother says it’s all right, I’ll go with you quick as lightning.”
“Good,” Agachak said, turning.
“Oh, Agachak?” Nathel’s voice sounded puzzled.
“Yes?”
“What’s a prophecy?”
They had gathered at Vo Mandor, far from the watchful eyes of their kings, to discuss something that was very private and very urgent. It was also just a trifle on the disobedient side, and there is a very ugly word men use to describe those who disobey their kings.
Barak was there, and also Hettar, Mandorallen, and Lelldorin. Relg had just arrived from Maragor, and Barak’s son Unrak sat on a high-backed bench by the window.
The Earl of Trellheim cleared his throat by way of calling them to order. They had gathered in the tower of Mandor-alien’s keep, and the golden autumn sunlight streamed in through the arched window. Barak was huge and resplendent in a green velvet doublet. His red beard was combed, and his hair was braided. “All right,” he rumbled, “let’s get started. Mandorallen, are you sure the stairway leading up here is guarded? I wouldn’t want anybody to overhear us.”
“Of a certainty, my Lord of Trellheim,” the great knight replied earnestly. “I vouchsafe it upon my life to thee.” Mandorallen wore mail and his silver-trimmed blue surcoat.
“A simple yes would have been enough, Mandorallen.” Barak sighed. “Now,” he continued briskly, “we’ve been forbidden to ride along with Garion and the others, right?”
“That’s what Cyradis said at Rheon,” Hettar replied softly. He wore his usual black horsehide, and his scalplock was caught in a silver ring. He lounged in a chair with his long legs thrust far out in front of him.
“All right, then,” Barak continued. “We can’t go with them, but there’s nothing to stop us from going to Mallorea on business of our own, is there?”
“What kind of business?” Lelldorin asked blankly.
“We’ll think of something. I’ve got a ship. We’ll run on down to Tot Honeth and load her with a cargo of some kind. Then we’ll go to Mallorea and do some trading.”
“How do you plan to get the Seabird across to the Sea of the East?” Hettar asked. “That could be a long portage, don’t you think?”
Barak winked broadly. “I’ve got a map,” he said. “We can sail around the southern end of Cthol Murgos and right on into the eastern sea. From there to Mallorea is nothing at all.”
“I thought the Murgos were very secretive about maps of their coastline,” Lelldorin said, a frown creasing his open young face.
“They are,” Barak grinned, “but Javelin’s been in Rak Urga and he managed to steal one.”
“How did you get it away from Javelin?” Hettar asked. “He’s even more secretive than the Murgos.”
“He sailed back to Boktor aboard Greldik’s ship. Javelin’s not a good sailor, so he wasn’t feeling very well. Greldik pinched the map and had his cartographer make a copy. Javelin never even knew he’d been robbed.”
“Thy plan is excellent, my Lord,” Mandorallen said gravely, “but methinks I detect a flaw.”
“Oh?”
“As all the world knows, Mallorea is a vast continent, thousands of leagues across and even more thousands from the south to the polar ice of the far north. It could well take us our lifetimes to locate our friends, for I perceive that to be the thrust of thy proposal.”
Barak slyly laid one finger aside his nose. “I was just coming to that,” he said. “When we were in Boktor, I got Yarblek drunk. He’s shrewd enough when he’s sober, but once you get a half keg of ale into him, he gets talkative. I asked him a few questions about the operation of the business he and Silk are running in Mallorea, and I got some very useful answers. It seems that the two of them have offices in every major city in Mallorea, and those offices keep in constant touch with each other. No matter what else he’s doing, Silk’s going to keep an eye on his business interests. Every time he gets near one of those offices, he’ll find some excuse to stop by to see how many millions he’s made in the past week.”
“That’s Silk, all right,” Hettar agreed.
“All we have to do is drop anchor in some Mallorean seaport and look up the little thief’s office. His people will know approximately where he is, and where Silk is, you’re going to find the others.”
“My Lord,” Mandorallen apologized, “I have wronged thee. Canst thou forgive me for underestimating thy shrewdness?”
“Perfectly all right, Mandorallen,” Barak replied magnanimously.
“But,” Lelldorin protested, “we’re still forbidden to join Garion and the others.”
“Truly,” Mandorallen agreed. “We may not approach them lest we doom their quest to failure.”
“I think I’ve worked that part out, too,” the big man said. “We can’t ride along with them, but Cyradis didn’t say anything about how far we have to stay away from them, did she? All we’re going to be doing is minding our own business—a league or so away—or maybe a mile. We’ll be close enough so that if they get into any kind of trouble, we’ll be able to lend a hand and then be on our way again. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Mandorallen’s face came suddenly alight. “ Tis a duty, my Lord,” he exclaimed, “a moral obligation. The Gods look with great disfavor upon those who fail to come to the aid of travelers in peril.”
“Somehow I knew you’d see it that way,” Barak said, slapping his friend on the shoulder with one huge hand.
“Sophistry,” Relg said with a note of finality in his harsh voice. The Ulgo zealot now wore a tunic that looked very much like the one Durnik customarily wore. His once-pale skin was now sun-browned, and he no longer wore a cloth across his eyes. The years of working out of doors near the house he had built for Taiba and their horde of children had gradually accustomed his skin and eyes to sunlight.
“What do you mean, sophistry?” Barak protested.
“Just what I said, Barak. The Gods look at our intent, not our clever excuses. You want to go to Mallorea to aid Belgarion—we all do—but don’t try to fool the Gods with these trumped-up stories.”
They all stared at the zealot helplessly.
“But it was such a good plan,” Barak said plaintively.
“Very good,” Relg agreed, “but it’s disobedient, and disobedience of the Gods—and of prophecy—is sin.”
“Sin again, Relg?” Barak said in disgust. “I thought you’d gotten over that.”
“Not entirely, no.”
Barak’s son Unrak, who at fourteen was already as big as a grown man, rose to his feet. He wore a mail shirt and had a sword belted at his side. His hair was flaming red, and his downy beard had already begun to cover his cheeks. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” he said. Unrak’s voice no longer cracked and warbled, but had settled into a resonant baritone. “We have to obey the prophecy, is that it?”
“To the letter,” Relg said firmly.
“Then I have to go to Mallorea,” Unrak said.
“That went by a little fast,” his father said to him.
“It’s not really all that complicated, father. I’m the hereditary protector of the heir to the Rivan Throne, aren’t I?”
“He’s got a point there,” Hettar said. “Go ahead, Unrak. Tell us what you’ve got in mind.”
“Well,” the young man said, blushing slightly under the scrutiny of his elders, “if Prince Geran’s in Mallorea and in danger, I have to go there. The prophecy says so. Now, I don’t know where he is, so I’m going to have to follow King Belgarion until he finds his son so that I can protect him.”
Barak grinned broadly at his son.
“But,” Unrak added, “I’m a little inexperienced at this protection business, so I might need a little guidance. Do you suppose, father, that I might be able to persuade you and your friends to come with me? Just to keep me from making any mistakes, you understand.”
Hettar rose and shook Barak’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said simply.
“Well, Relg,” Barak said, “does that satisfy your sense of propriety?”
Relg considered it. “Why yes,” he said, “as a matter of fact, I think it does.” Then he grinned the first grin Barak had ever seen on his harsh face. “When do we leave?” he asked.
His Imperial Majesty, Kal Zakath of Mallorea, stood at the window in a high tower in Maga Renn, looking out at the expanse of the great River Magan. A huge armada of craft of all sizes dotted the surface of the river up-of the city and moved down in orderly progression to the wharves where the imperial regiments waited to embark.
“Have you had any further news?” the Emperor asked.
“Things are a bit chaotic down there, your Imperial Majesty,” Brador, the brown-robed Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs, reported, “but it appears that the major confrontation between Urvon and Zandramas is going to take place in Peldane. Urvon has been moving down from the north, and Zandramas annexed Peldane last month to put a buffer between him and Darshiva. She’s been rushing her forces into Peldane to meet him.”
“What’s your assessment, Atesca?” Zakath asked.
General Atesca rose and went to the map hanging on the wall. He studied it for a moment, then stabbed one blunt finger at it. “Here, your Majesty,” he said, “the town of Ferra. We move down in force and occupy that place. It’s a logical forward base of operations. The River Magan is about fifteen miles wide at that point, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to interdict any further movement across it from Darshiva. That will eliminate Zandramas’ reinforcements. Urvon will have numerical superiority when they meet, and he’ll crush her army. He’ll take casualties, though. Both sides are fanatics, and they’ll fight to the death. After he wipes out Zandramas’ army, he’ll stop to lick his wounds. That’s when we should hit him. He’ll be weakened, and his troops will be exhausted. Ours will be fresh. The outcome ought to be fairly predictable. Then we can cross the Magan and mop up in Darshiva.”
“Excellent, Atesca,” Zakath said, a faint smile touching his cold lips, “There’s a certain ironic charm to your plan. First we have Urvon eliminate Zandramas for us, then we eliminate him. I like the idea of having the Disciple of Torak do my dirty work for me.”
“With your Majesty’s permission, I’d like to lead the forward elements and oversee the occupation of Ferra,” the general said. “Zandramas will almost have to counterattack, since we’ll have cut her army in two. We’ll need to fortify the town. I’ll also need to put out patrols on the river to keep her from trying to slip her troops into Peldane around our flanks. It’s a fairly crucial part of the operation, and I’d like to supervise it myself.”
“By all means, Atesca,” Zakath gave his consent, wouldn’t really trust anyone else to do it anyway.”
Atesca bowed. “Your Majesty is very kind,” he said.
“If I may, your Imperial Majesty,” Brador said, “we’re getting some disturbing reports from Cthol Murgos. Our agents there report that there are some fairly serious negotiations going on between Urgit and the Alorns.”
“The Murgos and the Alorns?” Zakath asked incredulously. “They’ve hated each other for eons.”
“Perhaps they’ve found a common cause,” Brador suggested delicately.
“Me, you mean?”
“It does seem logical, your Majesty.”
“We have to put a stop to that. I think we’ll have to attack the Alorns. Give them something close to home to worry about so they won’t have time for any adventures in Cthol Murgos.”
Atesca cleared his throat. “May I speak bluntly, your Majesty?” he asked.
“I’ve never heard you speak any other way, Atesca. What’s on your mind?”
“Only an idiot tries to fight a war on two fronts, and only a madman tries to fight one on three. You have this war here in Peldane, another in Cthol Murgos, and now you’re contemplating a third in Aloria. I advise against it in the strongest possible terms.”
Zakath smiled wryly. “You’re a brave man, Atesca,” he said. “I can’t recall the last time somebody called me an idiot and a madman in the same breath.”
“I trust your Majesty will forgive my candor, but that’s my honest opinion of the matter.”
“That’s all right, Atesca.” Zakath waved one hand as if brushing it aside. “You’re here to advise me, not to flatter me, and your plain language definitely got my attention. Well, we’ll hold off on going to war with the Alorns until we finish up here. I’ll go as far as idiocy; lunacy is something else. The world had enough of that with Taur.” He began to pace up and down. “Curse you, Bel!” he burst out suddenly. “What are you up to?”
“—your Majesty,” Brador interposed diffidently, “Belgarion isn’t in the West. He was seen just last week in Melcena.”
“What’s he doing in Melcena?”
“We weren’t able to determine that, your Majesty. It’s fairly certain that he left the islands, however. We think that he’s somewhere in this general vicinity.”
“Adding to the confusion, no doubt. Keep an eye out for him, Atesca. I really want to have a long talk with that young man. He stalks through the world like a natural disaster.”
“I’ll make a point of trying to locate him for your Majesty,” Atesca replied. “Now, with your Majesty’s permission, I’d like to go supervise the loading of the troops.”
“How long is it going to take you to get to Ferra?”
“Perhaps three or four days, your Majesty. I’ll put the troops to manning the oars.”
“They won’t like that.”
“They don’t have to like it, your Majesty.”
“All right, go ahead. I’ll be along a few days behind you.”
Atesca saluted and turned to go.
“Oh, by the way, Atesca,” Zakath said as an afterthought, “why don’t you take a kitten on your way out?” He pointed at a number of prowling, half-grown cats on the far side of the room. His own mackerel-striped tabby was perched high on the mantelpiece with a slightly harried expression on her face.
“Ah . . .” Atesca hesitated. “I’m overwhelmed with gratitude, your Majesty, but cat fur makes my eyes swell shut, and I think I’ll need my eyes during the next few weeks.”
Zakath sighed. “I understand, Atesca,” he said. “That will be all.”
The general bowed and left the room.
Zakath considered it. “Well,” he said, “if he won’t take a kitten, I suppose we’ll have to give him a field marshal’s baton instead—but only if this campaign of his is successful, you understand.”
“Perfectly, your Majesty,” Brador murmured.
The coronation of the Archduke Otrath as Emperor of Mallorea went off quite smoothly. Otrath, of course, was an unmitigated ass and he had to be led by the hand through the ceremony. When it was over, Zandramas installed him on an ornate throne in the palace at Hemil and left instructions that he be flattered and fawned over. Then she quietly left.
Prince Geran was in the simple room Zandramas had chosen for herself in the temple. A middle-aged Grolim priestess had been watching over him. “He’s been very good this morning, Holy Zandramas,” the priestess advised.
“Good, bad—what difference does it make?” Zandramas shrugged. “You can go now.”
“Yes, Holy Priestess.” The middle-aged woman genuflected and left the room.
Prince Geran looked at Zandramas with a grave expression on his little face.
“You’re quiet this morning, your Highness,” Zandramas said ironically.
The child’s expression did not change. Though they had been together for over a year, Geran had never shown the slightest sign of affection for her and, perhaps even more disturbing, he had never shown fear either. He held up one of his toys. “Ball,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, “I suppose so.” Then, perhaps because his penetrating gaze disturbed her, she crossed the room to stand before her mirror. She pushed back her hood and gazed intently at her reflection. It had not touched her face yet. That was something at least. She looked with distaste at the whirling, sparkling lights beneath the skin of her lands. Then, quite deliberately, she opened the front of her robe and gazed at her nude reflection. It was spreading, there could be no question about that. Her breasts and belly also underlaid with those selfsame whirling points of light.
Geran had come silently up to stand beside her. “Stars,” he said, pointing at the mirror.
“Just go play, Geran,” the Child of Dark told him, closing her robe.