KING BELGARION SAT somewhat disconsolately on his throne in the Hall of the Rivan King, listening to the endless, droning voice of Valgon, the Tolnedran ambassador. It had not been an easy time for Garion. There were so many things he did not know how to do. For one thing, he was totally incapable of giving orders; for another, he discovered that he had absolutely no time to himself and that he had not the faintest idea of how to dismiss the servants who continually hovered near him. He was followed wherever he went, and he had even given up trying to catch the overzealous bodyguard or valet or messenger who was always in the passageways behind him.
His friends seemed uncomfortable in his presence and they persisted in calling him "your Majesty" no matter how many times he asked them not to. He didn't feel any different, and his mirror told him that he didn't look any different, but everyone behaved as if he had changed somehow. The look of relief that passed over their faces each time he left injured him, and he retreated into a kind of protective shell, nursing his loneliness in silence.
Aunt Pol stood continually at his side now, but there was a difference there as well. Before, he had always been an adjunct to her, but now it was the other way around, and that seemed profoundly unnatural.
"The proposal, if your Majesty will forgive my saying so, is most generous," Valgon observed, concluding his reading of the latest treaty offered by Ran Borune. The Tolnedran ambassador was a sardonic man with an aquiline nose and an aristocratic bearing. He was a Honethite, a member of that family which had founded the Empire and from which the Imperial dynasties had sprung, and he had a scarcely concealed contempt for all Alorns. Valgon was a continual thorn in Garion's side. Hardly a day passed that some new treaty or trade agreement did not arrive from the Emperor. Garion had quickly perceived that the Tolnedrans were desperately nervous about the fact that they did not have his signature on a single piece of parchment, and they were proceeding on the theory that if they kept shoving documents in front of a man, eventually he would sign something just to get them to leave him alone.
Garion's counterstrategy was very simple; he refused to sign anything.
"It's exactly the same as the one they offered last week, " Aunt Pol's voice observed in the silence of his mind. "All they did was switch the clauses around and change a few words. Tell him no."
Garion looked at the smug ambassador with something very close to active dislike. "Totally out of the question," he replied shortly.
Valgon began to protest, but Garion cut him short. "It's identical to last week's proposal, Valgon, and we both know it. The answer was no then, and it's still no. I will not give Tolnedra preferred status in trade with Riva; I will not agree to ask Ran Borune's permission before I sign any agreement with any other nation; and I most certainly will not agree to any modification of the terms of the Accords of Vo Mimbre. Please ask Ran Borune not to pester me any more until he's ready to talk sense."
"Your Majesty!" Valgon sounded shocked. "One does not speak so to the Emperor of Tolnedra."
"I'll speak any way I please," Garion told him. "You have my - our permission to leave."
"Your Majesty-"
"You're dismissed, Valgon," Garion cut him off.
The ambassador drew himself up, bowed coldly, and stalked from the Hall.
"Not bad," King Anheg drawled from the partially concealed embrasure where he and the other kings generally gathered. The presence of these royal onlookers made Garion perpetually uneasy. He knew they were watching his every move, judging, evaluating his decisions, his manner, his words. He knew he was bound to make mistakes during these first few months, and he'd have greatly preferred to make them without an audience, but how could he tell a group of sovereign kings that he would prefer not to be the absolute center of their attention?
"A trifle blunt, though, wouldn't you say?" King Fulrach suggested.
"He'll learn to be more diplomatic in time," King Rhodar predicted.
"I expect that Ran Borune will find this directness refreshing just as soon as he recovers from the fit of apoplexy our Belgarion's reply is going to give him."
The assembled kings and nobles all laughed at King Rhodar's sally, and Garion tried without success to keep from blushing.
"Do they have to do that?" he whispered furiously to Aunt Pol. "Every time I so much as hiccup, I get all this commentary."
"Don't be surly, dear," she replied calmly. "It was a trifle impolite, though. Are you really sure you want to take that tone with your future father-in-law?"
That was something of which Garion most definitely did not wish to be reminded. The Princess Ce'Nedra had still not forgiven him for his sudden elevation, and Garion was having grave doubts about the whole notion of marrying her. Much as he liked her - and he did like her - he regretfully concluded that Ce'Nedra would not make him a good wife. She was clever and spoiled, and she had a streak of stubbornness in her nature as wide as an oxcart. Garion was fairly certain that she would take a perverse delight in making his life as miserable as she possibly could. As he sat on his throne listening to the jocular comments of the Alorn Kings, he began to wish that he had never heard of the Orb.
As always, the thought of the jewel made him glance up to where it glowed on the pommel of the massive sword hanging above the throne. There was something so irritatingly smug about the way it glowed each time he sat on the throne. It always seemed to be congratulating itselfas if he, Belgarion of Riva, were somehow its own private creation. Garion did not understand the Orb. There was an awareness about it; he knew that. His mind had tentatively touched that awareness and then had carefully retreated. Garion had been touched on occasion by the minds of Gods, but the consciousness of the Orb was altogether different. There was a power in it he could not even begin to comprehend. More than that, its attachment for him seemed quite irrational. Garion knew himself, and he was painfully aware that he was not that lovable. But each time he came near it, it would begin to glow insufferably, and his mind would fill with that strange, soaring song he had first heard in Ctuchik's turret. The song of the Orb was a kind of compelling invitation. Garion knew that if he should take it up, its will would join with his, and there would be nothing that between them they could not do. Torak had raised the Orb and had cracked the world with it. Garion knew that if he chose, he could raise the Orb and mend that crack. More alarming was the fact that as soon as the notion occurred to him, the Orb began to provide him with precise instructions on how to go about it.
"Pay attention, Garion, " Aunt Pol's voice said to him.
The business of the morning, however, was very nearly completed. There were a few other petitions and a peculiar note of congratulation that had arrived that morning from Nyissa. The tone of the note was tentatively conciliatory, and it appeared over the signature of Sadi the eunuch. Garion decided that he wanted to think things through rather carefully before he drafted a reply. The memory of what had happened in Salmissra's throne room still bothered him, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to normalize relations with the snake-people just yet.
Then, since there was no further court business, he excused himself and left the Hall. His ermine-trimmed robe was very hot, and the crown was beginning to give him a headache. He most definitely wanted to return to his apartment and change clothes.
The guards at the side door to the Hall bowed respectfully as he passed them and drew up into formation to accompany him. "I'm not really going anyplace," Garion told the sergeant in charge. "Just back to my rooms, and I know the way. Why don't you and your men go have some lunch?"
"Your Majesty is very kind," the sergeant replied. "Will you need us later?"
"I'm not sure. I'll send somebody to let you know."
The sergeant bowed again, and Garion went on along the dimly lighted corridor. He had found this passageway about two days after his coronation. It was relatively unused and it was the most direct route from the royal apartment to the throne room. Garion liked it because he could follow it to and from the great Hall with a minimum of pomp and ceremony. There were only a few doors, and the candles on the walls were spaced far enough apart to keep the light subdued. The dimness seemed comforting for some reason, almost as if it restored in some measure his anonymity.
He walked along, lost in thought. There were so many things to worry about. The impending war between the West and the Angarak kingdoms was uppermost in his mind. He, as Overlord of the West, would be expected to lead the West; and Kal Torak, awakened from his slumber, would come against him with the multitudes of Angarak. How could he possibly face so ternble an adversary? The very name of Torak chilled him, and what did he know about armies and battles? Inevitably, he would blunder, and Torak would smash all the forces of the West with one mailed fist.
Not even sorcery could help him. His own power was still too untried to risk a confrontation with Torak. Aunt Pol would do her best to aid him, of course, but without Belgarath they had little hope of success; and Belgarath had still not given any indication that his collapse had not permanently impaired his abilities.
Garion did not want to think about that any more, but his other problems were nearly as bad. Very soon he was going to have to come to grips with Ce'Nedra's adamant refusal to make peace. If she would only be reasonable, Garion was sure that the marginal difference in their rank would not make all that much difference. He liked Ce'Nedra. He was even prepared to admit that his feelings for her went quite a bit deeper than that. She could - usually when she wanted something - be absolutely adorable. If they could just get past this one minor problem, things might turn out rather well. That possibility brightened his thoughts considerably. Musing about it, he continued on down the corridor.
He had gone only a few more yards when he heard that furtive step behind him again. He sighed, wishing that his everpresent attendant would find some other amusement. Then he shrugged and, deep in thought about the Nyissan question, he continued on along the corridor.
The warning was quite sharp and came at the last instant. "Look outl" the voice in his mind barked at him. Not knowing exactly why, not even actually thinking about it, Garion reacted instantly, diving headlong to the floor. His crown went rolling as, with a great shower of sparks, a thrown dagger clashed into the stone wall and went bouncing and skittering along the flagstones. Garion swore, rolled quickly and came to his feet with his own dagger in his hand. Outraged and infuriated by this sudden attack, he ran back along the corridor, his erminetrimmed robe flapping and tangling cumbersomely around his legs.
He caught only one or two momentary glimpses of his gray-cloaked attacker as he ran after the knife thrower. The assassin dodged into a recessed doorway some yards down the corridor, and Garion heard a heavy door slam behind the fleeing man. When he reached the door and wrenched it open, his dagger still in his fist, he found only another long, dim passageway. There was no one in sight.
His hands were shaking, but it was more from anger than from fright. He briefly considered calling the guards, but almost immediately dismissed that idea. To continue following the assailant was, the more he thought about it, even more unwise. He had no weapon but his dagger, and the possibility of meeting someone armed with a sword occurred to him. There might even be more than one involved in this business, and these dimly lighted and deserted corridors were most certainly not a good place for confrontations.
As he started to close the door, something caught his eye. A small scrap of gray wool lay on the floor just at the edge of the door frame. Garion bent, picked it up and carried it over to one of the candles hanging along the wall. The bit of wool was no more than two fingers wide and seemed to have been torn from the corner of a gray Rivan cloak. In his haste to escape, the assassin had, Garion surmised, inadvertently slammed the door on his own cape, and then had ripped off this fragment in his flight. Garion's eyes narrowed and he turned and hurried back up the corridor, stooping once to retrieve his crown and again to pick up his assailant's dagger. He looked around once. The hallway was empty and somehow threatening. If the unknown knife thrower were to return with three or four companions, things could turn unpleasant. All things considered, it might be best to get back to his own apartments as quickly as possible - and to lock his door. Since there was no one around to witness any lack of dignity, Garion lifted the skirts of his royal robe and bolted like a rabbit for safety.
He reached his own door, jerked it open and jumped inside, closing and locking it behind him. He stood with his ear against the door, listening for any sounds of pursuit.
"Is something wrong, your Majesty?"
Garion almost jumped out of his skin. He whirled to confront his valet, whose eyes widened as he saw the daggers in the king's hands. "Uh-nothing" he replied quickly, trying to cover his confusion. "Help me out of this thing." He struggled with the fastenings of his robe. His hands seemed to be full of daggers and crowns. With a negligent flip he tossed his crown into a nearby chair, sheathed his own dagger and then carefully laid the other knife and the scrap of wool cloth on the polished table.
The valet helped him to remove the robe and then carefully folded it over his arm. "Would your Majesty like to have me get rid of these for you?" he asked, looking a bit distastefully at the dagger and the bit of wool on the table.
"No," Garion told him firmly. Then a thought occurred to him. "Do you know where my sword is?" he asked.
"Your Majesty's sword hangs in the throne room," the valet replied.
"Not that one," Garion said. "The other one. The one I was wearing when I first came here."
"I suppose I could find it," the valet answered a bit dubiously.
"Do that," Garion said. "I think I'd like to have it where I can get my hands on it. And please see if you can find Lelldorin of Wildantor for me. I need to talk to him."
"At once, your Majesty." The valet bowed and quietly left the room. Garion took up the dagger and the scrap of cloth and examined both rather closely. The dagger was just a commonplace knife, heavy, sturdily made and with a wirebound hilt. It bore no ornaments or identifying marks of any kind. Its tip was slightly bent, the result of its contact with the stone wall. Whoever had thrown it had thrown very hard. Garion developed a definitely uncomfortable sensation between his shoulder blades. The dagger would probably not be very useful. There were undoubtedly a hundred like it in the Citadel. The wool scrap, on the other hand, might prove to be very valuable. Somewhere in this fortress, there was a man with the corner of his cloak torn off. The torn cloak and this little piece of cloth would very likely match rather closely.
About a half an hour later Lelldorin arrived. "You sent for me, Garion?" he asked.
"Sit down, Lelldorin," Garion told his friend, then pointedly waited until the valet left the room. "I think I've got a little bit of a problem," he said then, sprawling deeper in the chair by the table. "I wondered if I might ask your help."
"You know you don't have to ask, Garion," the earnest young Asturian told him.
"This has to be just between the two of us," Garion cautioned. "I don't want anyone else to know."
"My word of honor on it," Lelldorin replied instantly.
Garion slid the dagger across the table to his friend. "A little while ago when I was on my way back here, somebody threw this at me."
Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide. "Treason?" he gasped. "Either that or something personal," Garion replied. "I don't know what it's all about."
"You must alert your guards," Lelldorin declared, jumping to his feet.
"No," Garion answered firmly. "If I do that, they'll lock me up entirely. I don't have very much freedom left at all, and I don't want to lose it."
"Did you see him at all?" Lelldorin asked, sitting down again and examining the dagger.
"Just his back. He was wearing one of those gray cloaks."
"All Rivan wear gray cloaks, Garion."
"We do have something to work with, though." Garion took the scrap of wool out from under his tunic. "After he threw the knife, he ran through a door and slammed it shut behind him. He caught his cloak in the door and this got ripped off."
Lelldorin examined the bit of cloth. "It looks like a corner," he noted.
"That's what I think, too," Garion agreed. "If we both keep our eyes open, we might just happen to see somebody with the corner of his cloak missing. Then, if we can get our hands on his cloak, we might be able to see if this piece matches."
Lelldorin nodded his agreement, his face hardening. "When we find him, though, I want to deal with him. A king isn't supposed to become personally involved in that sort of thing."
"I might decide to suspend the rules," Garion said grimly. "I don't like having knives thrown at me. But let's find out who it is first."
"I'll start at once," Lelldorin said, rising quickly. "I'll examine every corner of every cloak in Riva if I have to. We'll find this traitor, Garion. I promise you."
Garion felt better after that, but it was still a wary young king who, in the company of a detachment of guards, went late that afternoon to the private apartments of the Rivan Warder. He looked about constantly as he walked, and his hand was never far from the hilt of the sword at his waist.
He found Brand seated before a large harp. The Warder's big hands seemed to caress the strings of the instrument, bringing forth a plaintively rippling melody. The big, grim man's face was soft and reflective as he played, and Garion found that the music was even more beautiful because it was so unexpected.
"You play very well, my Lord," he said respectfully as the last notes of the song lingered in the strings.
"I play often, your Majesty," Brand replied. "Sometimes as I play I can even forget that my wife is no longer with me." He rose from the chair in front of the harp and squared his shoulders, all softness going out of his face. "How may I serve you, King Belgarion?"
Garion cleared his throat a trifle nervously. "I'm probably not going to say this very well," he admitted, "but please take it the way I mean it and not the way it might come out."
"Certainly, your Majesty."
"I didn't ask for all this, you know," Garion began with a vague gesture that took in the entire Citadel. "The crown, I mean, and being king - all of it. I was really pretty happy the way I was."
"Yes, your Majesty?"
"What I'm trying to get at is - well - you were the ruler here in Riva until I came along."
Brand nodded soberly.
"I didn't really want to be king," Garion rushed on, "and I certainly didn't want to push you out of your position."
Brand looked at him, and then he slowly smiled. "I'd wondered why you seemed so uneasy whenever I came into the room, your Majesty. Is that what's been making you uncomfortable?"
Mutely, Garion nodded.
"You don't really know us yet, Belgarion," Brand told him. "You've only been here for a little more than a month. We're a peculiar sort of people. For over three thousand years we've been protecting the Orb ever since Iron-grip came to this island. That's why we exist, and I think that one of the things we've lost along the way is that sense of self other men seem to feel is so important. Do you know why I'm called Brand?"
"I never really thought about it," Garion admitted.
"I do have another name, of course," Brand said, "but I'm not supposed ever to mention it. Each Warder has been called Brand so that there could never be any sense of personal glory in the office. We serve the Orb; that's our only purpose. To be quite honest with you, I'm really rather glad you came when you did. It was getting close to the time when I was supposed to choose my successor - with the help of the Orb, of course. But I didn't have the faintest idea whom to choose. Your arrival has relieved me of that task."
"We can be friends, then?"
"I think we already are, Belgarion," Brand replied gravely. "We both serve the same master, and that always brings men close together."
Garion hesitated. "Am I doing all right?" he blurted.
Brand considered that. "Some of the things you've done weren't exactly the way I might have done them, but that's to be expected. Rhodar and Anheg don't always do things the same way either. Each of us has his own particular manner."
"They make fun of me, don't they - Anheg, Rhodar, and the others. I hear all the clever remarks every time I make a decision."
"I wouldn't worry too much about that, Belgarion. They're Alorns, and Alorns don't take kings very seriously. They make fun of each other too, you know. You could almost say that as long as they're joking, everything is all right. If they suddenly become very serious and formal, then you'll know that you're in trouble."
"I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way," Garion admitted.
"You'll get used to it in time," Brand assured him.
Garion felt much better after his conversation with Brand. In the company of his guards he started back toward the royal apartments; but part way there, he changed his mind and went looking for Aunt Po1 instead. When he entered her rooms, his cousin Adara was sitting quietly with her, watching as Aunt Pol carefully mended one of Garion's old tunics. The girl rose and curtsied formally.
"Please Adara," he said in a pained voice, "don't do that when we're alone. I see enough of it out there." He gestured in the direction of the more public parts of the building.
"Whatever your Majesty wishes," she replied.
"And don't call me that. I'm still just Garion."
She looked gravely at him with her calm, beautiful eyes. "No, cousin," she disagreed, "you'll never be `just Garion' any more."
He sighed as the truth of that struck his heart.
"If you'll excuse me," she said then, "I must go attend Queen Silar. She's a bit unwell, and she says it comforts her to have me near."
"It comforts all of us when you're near," Garion told her without even thinking about it.
She smiled at him fondly.
"There might be some hope for him after all," Aunt Pol observed, her needle busy.
Adara looked at Garion. "He has never really been that bad, Lady Polgara," she said. She inclined her head toward them both and quietly left the room.
Garion wandered around for a few moments and then flung himself into a chair. A great deal had happened that day, and he felt suddenly at odds with the whole world.
Aunt Pol continued to sew.
"Why are you doing that?" Garion demanded finally. "I'll never wear that old thing again."
"It needs fixing, dear," she told him placidly.
"There are a hundred people around who could do it for you."
"I prefer to do it myself."
"Put it down and talk to me."
She set the tunic aside and looked at him inquiringly. "And what did your Majesty wish to discuss?" she inquired.
"Aunt Pol!" Garion's voice was stricken. "Not you too."
"Don't give orders then, dear," she recommended, picking up the tunic again.
Garion watched her at her sewing for a few moments, not really knowing what to say. A strange thought occurred to him. "Why are you doing that, Aunt Pol?" he asked, really curious this time. "Probably nobody'll ever use it again, so you're just wasting time on it."
"It's my time, dear," she reminded him. She looked up from her sewing, her eyes unreadable. Then, without explanation she held up the tunic with one hand and ran the forefinger of her other hand carefully up the rip. Garion felt a very light surge, and the sound was only a whisper. The rip mended itself before his eyes, rewoven as if it had never existed. "Now you can see how completely useless mending it really is," she told him.
"Why do you do it then?"
"Because I like to sew, dear," she replied. With a sharp little jerk she ripped the tunic again. Then she picked up her needle and patiently began repairing the rip. "Sewing keeps the hands and eyes busy, but leaves the mind free for other things. It's very relaxing."
"Sometimes you're awfully complicated, Aunt Pol."
"Yes, dear. I know."
Garion paced about for a bit, then suddenly knelt beside her chair and, pushing her sewing aside, he put his head into her lap. "Oh, Aunt Pol," he said, very close to tears.
"What's the matter, dear?" she asked, carefully smoothing his hair.
"I'm so lonely."
"Is that all?"
He lifted his head and stared at her incredulously. He had not expected that.
"Everyone is lonely, dear," she explained, drawing him close to her. "We touch other people only briefly, then we're alone again. You'll get used to it in time."
"Nobody will talk to me now - not the way they did before. They're always bowing and saying 'Your Majesty' to me."
"You are the king, after all," she replied.
"But I don't want to be."
"That's too bad. It's the destiny of your family, so there's not a thing you can do about it. Did anyone ever tell you about Prince Gared?"
"I don't think so. Who was he?"
"He was the only survivor when the Nyissan assassins killed King Gorek and his family. He escaped by throwing himself into the sea."
"How old was he?"
"Six. He was a very brave child. Everyone thought that he had drowned and that his body had been washed out to sea. Your grandfather and I encouraged that belief. For thirteen hundred years we've hidden Prince Gared's descendants. For generations they've lived out their lives in quiet obscurity for the single purpose of bringing you to the throne - and now you say that you don't want to be king?"
"I don't know any of those people," he said sullenly. He knew he was behaving badly, but he couldn't seem to help himself.
"Would it help if you did know them - some of them, anyway?"
The question baffled him.
"Perhaps it might," she decided. She laid her sewing aside and stood up, drawing him to his feet. "Come with me," she told him and led him to the tall window that looked out over the city below. There was a small balcony outside; in one corner where a rain-gutter had cracked, there had built up during the fall and winter a sheet of shiny black ice, curving down over the railing and spreading out on the balcony floor.
Aunt Pol unlatched the window and it swung open, admitting a blast of icy air that made the candles dance. "Look directly into the ice, Garion," she told him, pointing at the glittering blackness. "Look deep into it."
He did as she told him and felt the force of her mind at work. Something was in the ice - shapeless at first but emerging slowly and becoming more and more visible. It was, he saw finally, the figure of a pale blond woman, quite lovely and with a warm smile on her lips. She seemed young, and her eyes were directly on Garion's face. "My baby," a voice seemed to whisper to him. "My little Garion."
Garion began to tremble violently. "Mother?" he gasped.
"So tall now," the whisper continued. "Almost a man."
"And already a king, Ildera," Aunt Pol told the phantom in a gentle voice.
"Then he was the chosen one," the ghost of Garion's mother exulted. "I knew it. I could feel it when I carried him under my heart."
A second shape had begun to appear beside the first. It was a tall young man with dark hair but a strangely familiar face. Garion clearly saw its resemblance to his own. "Hail Belgarion, my son," the second shape said to him.
"Father," Garion replied, not knowing what else to say.
"Our blessings, Garion," the second ghost said as the two figures started to fade.
"I avenged you, father," Garion called after them. It seemed important that they know that. He was never sure, however, if they had heard him.
Aunt Pol was leaning against the window frame with a look of exhaustion on her face.
"Are you all right?" Garion asked her, concerned.
"It's a very difficult thing to do, dear," she told him, passing a weary hand over her face.
But there was yet another flicker within the depths of the ice, and the familiar shape of the blue wolf appeared-the one who had joined Belgarath in the fight with Grul the Eldrak in the mountains of Ulgo. The wolf sat looking at them for a moment, then flickered briefly into the shape of a snowy owl and finally became a tawny-haired woman with golden eyes. Her face was so like Aunt Pol's that Garion could not help glancing quickly back and forth to compare them.
"You left it open, Polgara," the golden-eyed woman said gently. Her voice was as warm and soft as a summer evening.
"Yes, mother," Aunt Pol replied. "I'll close it in a moment."
"It's all right, Polgara," the wolf woman told her daughter. "It gave me the chance to meet him." She looked directly into Garion's face. "A touch or two is still there," she observed. "A bit about the eyes and in the shape of the jaw. Does he know?"
"Not everything, mother," Aunt Pol answered.
"Perhaps it's as well," Poledra noted.
Once again another figure emerged out of the dark depths of the ice. The second woman had hair like sunlight, and her face was even more like Aunt Pol's than Poledra's. "Polgara, my dear sister," she said.
"Beldaran," Aunt Pol responded in a voice overwhelmed with love.
"And Belgarion," Garion's ultimate grandmother said, "the final flower of my love and Riva's."
"Our blessings also, Belgarion," Poledra declared. "Farewell for now, but know that we love thee." And then the two were gone.
"Does that help?" Aunt Pol asked him, her voice deep with emotion and her eyes filled with tears.
Garion was too stunned by what he had just seen and heard to answer. Dumbly he nodded.
"I'm glad the effort wasn't wasted then," she said. "Please close the window, dear. It's letting the winter in."
IT WAS THE first day of spring, and King Belgarion of Riva was terribly nervous. He had watched the approach of Princess Ce'Nedra's sixteenth birthday with a steadily mounting anxiety and, now that the day had finally arrived, he hovered on the very edge of panic. The deep blue brocade doublet over which a half dozen tailors had labored for weeks still did not seem to feel just right. Somehow it was a bit tight across the shoulders, and the stiff collar scratched his neck. Moreover, his gold crown seemed unusually heavy on this particular day, and, as he fidgeted, his throne seemed even more uncomfortable than usual.
The Hall of the Rivan King had been decorated extensively for the occasion, but even the banners and garlands of pale spring flowers could not mask the ominous starkness of the great throne room. The assembled notables, however, chatted and laughed among themselves as if nothing significant were taking place. Garion felt rather bitter about their heartless lack of concern in the face of what was about to happen to him.
Aunt Pol stood at the left side of his throne, garbed in a new silver gown and with a silver circlet about her hair. Belgarath lounged indolently on the right, wearing a new green doublet which had already become rumpled.
"Don't squirm so much, dear," Aunt Pol told Garion calmly.
"That's easy enough for you to say," Garion retorted in an accusing tone.
"Try not to think about it," Belgarath advised. "It will all be over in a little while."
Then Brand, his face seeming even more bleak than usual, entered the Hall from the side door and came to the dais. "There's a Nyissan at the gate of the Citadel, your Majesty," he said quietly. "He says that he's the emissary of Queen Salmissra and that he's here to witness the ceremony."
"Isn't that impossible?" Garion asked Aunt Pol, startled by the Warder's surprising announcement.
"Not entirely," she replied. "More likely, though, it's a diplomatic fiction. I'd imagine that the Nyissans would prefer to keep Salmissra's condition a secret."
"What do I do?" Garion asked. Belgarath shrugged.
"Let him in."
"In here?" Brand's voice was shocked. "A Nyissan in the throne room? Belgarath, you're not serious."
"Garion is Overlord of the West, Brand," the old man replied, "and that includes Nyissa. I don't imagine that the snake-people will be much use to us at any time, but let's be polite, at least."
Brand's face went stiff with disapproval. "What is your Majesty's decision?" he asked Garion directly.
"Well-" Garion hesitated. "Let him come in, I guess."
"Don't vacillate, Garion," Aunt Pol told him firmly.
"I'm sorry," Garion said quickly.
"And don't apologize," she added. "Kings do not apologize."
He looked at her helplessly. Then he turned back to Brand. "Tell the emissary from Nyissa to join us," he said, though his tone was placating.
"By the way, Brand," Belgarath suggested, "I wouldn't let anyone get too excited about this. The Nyissan has ambassadorial status, and it would be a serious breach of protocol if he were to die unexpectedly."
Brand bowed rather stiffly, turned, and left the Hall.
"Was that really necessary, father?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Old grudges die hard, Pol," Belgarath replied. "Sometimes it's best to get everything right out in front so that there aren't any misunderstandings later."
When the emissary of the Snake Queen entered the Hall, Garion started with surprise. It was Sadi, the chief eunuch in Salmissra's palace. The thin man with the dead-looking eyes and shaved head wore the customary iridescent blue-green Nyissan robe, and he bowed sinuously as he approached the throne. "Greetings to his Majesty, Belgarion of Riva, from Eternal Salmissra, Queen of the Snake-People," he intoned in his peculiarly contralto voice.
"Welcome, Sadi," Garion replied formally.
"My queen sends her regards on this happy day," Sadi continued.
"She didn't really, did she?" Garion asked a bit pointedly.
"Not precisely, your Majesty," Sadi admitted without the least trace of embarrassment. "I'm sure she would have, however, if we'd been able to make her understand what was happening."
"How is she?" Garion remembered the dreadful transformation Salmissra had undergone.
"Difficult," Sadi answered blandly. "Of course that's nothing new. Fortunately she sleeps for a week or two after she's been fed. She moulted last month, and it made her dreadfully short-tempered." He rolled his eyes ceilingward. "It was ghastly," he murmured. "She bit three servants before it was over. They all died immediately, of course."
"She's venomous?" Garion was a bit startled at that.
"She's always been venomous, your Majesty."
"That's not the way I mean."
"Forgive my little joke," Sadi apologized. "Judging from the reactions of people she's bitten, I'd guess that she's at least ten times more deadly than a common cobra."
"Is she terribly unhappy?" Garion felt a strange pity for the hideously altered queen.
"That's really rather hard to say, your Majesty," Sadi replied clinically. "It's difficult to tell what a snake's really feeling, you understand. By the time she'd learned to communicate her wishes to us, she seemed to have become reconciled to her new form. We feed her and keep her clean. As long as she has her mirror and someone to bite when she's feeling peevish, she seems quite content."
"She still looks at herself in the mirror? I wouldn't think she'd want to now."
"Our race has a somewhat different view of the serpent, your Majesty," Sadi explained. "We find it a rather attractive creature, and our queen is a splendid-looking snake, after all. Her new skin is quite lovely, and she seems very proud of it." He turned and bowed deeply to Aunt Pol. "Lady Polgara," he greeted her.
"Sadi," she acknowledged with a brief nod.
"May I convey to you the heartfelt thanks of her Majesty's government?"
One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows rose inquiringly.
"The government, my Lady - not the queen herself. Your - ah - intervention, shall we say, has simplified things in the palace enormously. We no longer have to worry about Salmissra's whims and peculiar appetites. We rule by committee and we hardly ever find it necessary to poison each other any more. No one's tried to poison me for months. It's all very smooth and civilised in Sthiss Tor now." He glanced briefly at Garion. "May I also offer my congratulations on your success with his Majesty? He seems to have matured considerably. He was really very callow when last we met,"
"Whatever happened to Issus?" Garion asked him, ignoring that particular observation.
Sadi shrugged. "Issus? Oh, he's still about, scratching out a living as a paid assassin, probably. I imagine that one day we'll find him floating facedown in the river. It's the sort of end one expects for someone like that."
There was a sudden blare of trumpets from just beyond the great doors at the back of the Hall. Garion started nervously, and his mouth quite suddenly went dry.
The heavy doors swung open, and a double file of Tolnedran legionnaires marched in, their breastplates burnished until they shone like mirrors, and the tall crimson plumes on their helmets waving as they marched. The inclusion of the legionnaires in the ceremony had infuriated Brand. The Rivan Warder had stalked about in icy silence for days after he had discovered that Garion had granted ambassador Valgon's request for a proper escort for Princess Ce'Nedra. Brand did not like Tolnedrans, and he had been looking forward to witnessing the pride of the empire humbled by Ce'Nedra's forlorn and solitary entrance into the Hall. The presence of the legionnaires spoiled that, of course, and Brand's disappointment and disapproval had been painfully obvious. As much as Garion wanted to stay on Brand's good side, however, he did not intend to start off the official relationship between his bride-to-be and himself by publicly humiliating her. Garion was quite ready to acknowledge his lack of education, but he was not prepared to admit to being that stupid.
When Ce'Nedra entered, her hand resting lightly on Valgon's arm, she was every inch an Imperial Princess. Garion could only gape at her. Although the Accords of Vo Mimbre required that she present herself in her wedding gown, Garion was totally unprepared for such Imperial magnificence. Her gown was of gold and white brocade covered with seed pearls, and its train swept the floor behind her. Her flaming hair was intricately curled and cascaded over her left shoulder like a deep crimson waterfall. Her circlet of tinted gold held in place a short veil that did not so much conceal her face as soften it into luminousness.
She was tiny and perfect, exquisite beyond belief, but her eyes were like little green agates.
She and Valgon moved at stately pace down between the ranks of her tall, burnished legionnaires; when they reached the front of the Hall, they stopped.
Brand, sober-faced and imposing, took his staff of office from Bralon, his eldest son, and rapped sharply on the stone floor with its butt three times. "Her Imperial Highness Ce'Nedra of the Tolnedran Empire," he announced in a deep, booming voice. "Will your Majesty grant her audience?"
"I will receive the princess," Garion declared, straightening a bit on his throne.
"The Princess Ce'Nedra may approach the throne," Brand proclaimed. Though his words were ritual formality, they had obviously been chosen with great care to make it absolutely clear that Imperial Tolnedra came to the Hall of the Rivan King as a suppliant. Ce'Nedra's eyes flashed fire, and Garion groaned inwardly. The little princess, however, glided to the appointed spot before the dais and curtsied regally. There was no submission in that gesture.
"The Princess has permission to speak," Brand boomed. For a brief, irrational moment Garion wanted to strangle him.
Ce'Nedra drew herself up, her face as cold as a winter sea. "Thus I, Ce'Nedra, daughter to Ran Borune XXIII and Princess of Imperial Tolnedra, present myself as required by treaty and law in the presence of His Majesty, Belgarion of Riva," she declared. "And thus has the Tolnedran Empire once more demonstrated her willingness to fulfill her obligations as set forth in the Accords of Vo Mimbre. Let other kingdoms witness Tolnedra's meticulous response and follow her example in meeting their obligations. I declare before these witnesses that I am an unmarried virgin of a suitable age. Will his Majesty consent to take me to wife?"
Garion's reply had been carefully thought out. The quiet inner voice had suggested a way to head off years of marital discord. He rose to his feet and said, "I, Belgarion, King of Riva, hereby consent to take the Imperial Princess Ce'Nedra to be my wife and queen. I declare, moreover, that she will rule jointly by my side in Riva and wheresoever else the authority of our throne may extend."
The gasp that rippled through the Hall was clearly audible, and Brand's face went absolutely white. The look Ce'Nedra gave Garion was quizzical, and her eyes softened slightly.
"Your Majesty is too kind," she responded with a graceful little curtsy. Some of the edge had gone out of her voice, and she threw a quick sidelong glance at the spluttering Brand. 'Have I your Majesty's permission to withdraw?" she asked sweetly.
"As your Highness wishes," Garion replied, sinking back down onto his throne. He was perspiring heavily.
The princess curtsied again with a mischievous little twinkle in her eyes, then turned and left the Hall with her legionnaires drawn up in close order about her.
As the great doors boomed shut behind her, an angry buzz ran through the crowd. The word "outrageous" seemed to be the most frequently repeated.
"This is unheard of, your Majesty," Brand protested.
"Not entirely," Garion replied defensively. "The throne of Arendia is held jointly by King Korodullin and Queen Mayaserana." He looked to Mandorallen, gleaming in his armor, with a mute appeal in his eyes.
"His Majesty speaks truly, my Lord Brand," Mandorallen declared. "I assure thee that our kingdom suffers not from the lack of singularity upon the throne."
"That's Arendia," Brand objected. "This is Riva. The situations are entirely different. No Alorn kingdom has ever been ruled by a woman."
"It might not hurt to examine the possible advantages of the situation," King Rhodar suggested. "My own queen, for example, plays a somewhat more significant role in Drasnian affairs than custom strictly allows."
With great difficulty Brand regained at least some of his composure. "May I withdraw, your Majesty?" he asked, his face still livid.
"If you wish," Garion answered quietly. It wasn't going well. Brand's conservatism was the one stumbling block he hadn't considered.
"It's an interesting notion, dear," Aunt Pol said quietly to him, "but don't you think it might have been better to consult with someone before you made it a public declaration?"
"Won't it help to cement relations with the Tolnedrans?"
"Quite possibly," she admitted. "I'm not saying that it's a bad idea, Garion; I just think it might have been better to warn a few people first. What are you laughing at?" she demanded of Belgarath, who was leaning against the throne convulsed with mirth.
"The Bear-cult's going to have collective apoplexy," he chortled.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh, dear," she said. "I'd forgotten about them."
"They aren't going to like it very much, are they?" Garion concluded. "Particularly since Ce'Nedra's a Tolnedran."
"I think you can count on them to go up in flames," the old sorcerer replied, still laughing.
In the days that followed, the usually bleak halls of the Citadel were filled with color as official visitors and representatives teemed through them, chatting, gossiping, and conducting business in out-of the-way corners. The rich and varied gifts they had brought to celebrate the occasion filled several tables lining one of the walls in the great throne room. Garion, however, was unable to visit or to examine the gifts. He spent his days in a room with his advisers and with the Tolnedran ambassador and his staff as the details of the official betrothal document were hammered out.
Valgon had seized on Garion's break with tradition and was trying to wring the last measure of advantage from it, while Brand was desperately trying to add clauses and stipulations to circumscribe Ce'Nedra's authority rigidly. As the two haggled back and forth, Garion found himself more and more frequently staring out the window. The sky over Riva was an intense blue, and puffy white clouds ran before the wind. The bleak crags of the island were touched with the first green blush of spring. Faintly, carried by the wind, the high, clear voice of a shepherdess singing to her flock wafted through the open window. There was a pure, unschooled quality to her voice, and she sang with no hint of self consciousness as if there were not a human ear within a hundred leagues. Garion sighed as the last notes of her song died away and then returned his attention to the tedious negotiations.
His attention, however, was divided in those early days of spring. Since he was unable to pursue the search for the man with the torn cloak himself, he was forced to rely on Lelldorin to press the investigation. Lelldorin was not always entirely reliable, and the search for the would-be assassin seemed to fire the enthusiastic young Asturian's imagination. He crept about the Citadel with dark, sidelong glances, and reported his lack of findings in conspiratorial whispers. Turning things over to Lelldorin might have been a mistake, but there had been no real choice in the matter. Any of Garion's other friends would have immediately raised a general outcry, and the entire affair would have been irrevocably out in the open. Garion did not want that. He was not prepared to make any decisions about the assassin until he found out who had thrown the knife and why. Too many other things could have been involved. Only Lelldorin could be relied upon for absolute secrecy, even though there was some danger in turning him loose in the Citadel with a license to track someone down. Lelldorin had a way of turning simple things into catastrophes, and Garion worried almost as much about that as he did about the possibility of another knife hurtling out of the shadows toward his unprotected back.
Among the visitors present for the betrothal ceremonies was Ce'Nedra's cousin Xera, who was present as the personal representative of Queen Xantha. Though shy at first, the Dryad soon lost her reserve - particularly when she found herself the center of the attention of a cluster of smitten young noblemen.
The gift of Queen Xantha to the royal couple was, Garion thought, somewhat peculiar. Wrapped in plain leaves, Xera presented them with two sprouted acorns. Ce'Nedra, however, seemed delighted. She insisted upon planting the two seeds immediately and rushed down to the small private garden adjoining the royal apartments.
"It's very nice, I suppose," Garion commented dubiously as he stood watching his princess on her knees in the damp loam of the garden, busily preparing the earth to receive Queen Xantha's gift.
Ce'Nedra looked at him sharply. "I don't believe your Majesty understands the significance of the gift," she said in that hatefully formal tone she had assumed with him.
"Stop that," Garion told her crossly. "I still have a name, after all and I'm almost positive you haven't forgotten it."
"If your Majesty insists," she replied loftily.
"My Majesty does. What's so significant about a couple of nuts?"
She looked at him almost pityingly. "You wouldn't understand."
"Not if you won't take the trouble to explain it to me."
"Very well." She sounded irntatingly superior. "The one acorn is from my very own tree. The other is from Queen Xantha's."
"So?"
"See how impossibly dense he is," the princess said to her cousin.
"He's not a Dryad, Ce'Nedra," Xera replied calmly.
"Obviously."
Xera turned to Garion. "The acorns are not really from my mother," she explained. "They're gifts from the trees themselves."
"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" Garion demanded of Ce'Nedra.
She sniffed and returned to her digging.
"While they're still just young shoots, Ce'Nedra will bind them together," Xera went on. "The shoots will intertwine as they grow, embracing each other and forming a single tree. It's the Dryad symbol for marriage. The two will become one - just as you and Ce'Nedra will."
"That remains to be seen," Ce'Nedra sniffed, trowelling busily in the dirt.
Garion sighed. "I hope the trees are patient."
"Trees are very patient, Garion," Xera replied. She made a little gesture that Ce'Nedra could not see, and Garion followed her to the other end of the garden.
"She does love you, you know," Xera told him quietly. "She won't admit it, of course, but she loves you. I know her well enough to see that."
"Why's she acting the way she is, then?"
"She doesn't like being forced into things, that's all."
"I'm not the one who's forcing her. Why take it out on me?"
"Whom else can she take it out on?"
Garion hadn't thought of that. He left the garden quietly. Xera's words gave him some hope that one of his problems, at least, might eventually be resolved. Ce'Nedra would pout and storm for a while, and then - after she had made him suffer enough - she would relent. Perhaps it might speed things along if he suffered a bit more obviously.
The other problems had not changed significantly. He was still going to have to lead an army against Kal Torak; Belgarath had still given no sign that his power was intact; and someone in the Citadel was still, so far as Garion knew, sharpening another knife for him. He sighed and went back to his own rooms where he could worry in private.
Somewhat later he received word that Aunt Pol wanted to see him in her private apartment. He went immediately and found her seated by the fire, sewing as usual. Belgarath, dressed in his shabby old clothes, sat in one of the deep, comfortable chairs on the other side of the fire with his feet up and a tankard in his hand.
"You wanted to see me, Aunt Pol?" Garion inquired as he entered.
"Yes, dear," she replied. "Sit down." She looked at him somewhat critically. "He still doesn't look much like a king, does he, father?"
"Give him time, Pol," the old man told her. "He hasn't been at it for very long."
"You both knew all along, didn't you?" Garion accused them. "Who I was, I mean."
"Naturally," Aunt Pol answered in that maddening way of hers.
"Well, if you'd wanted me to behave like a king, you should have told me about it. That way I'd have had some time to get used to the idea."
"It seems to me we discussed this once before," Belgarath mentioned, "a long time ago. If you'll stop and think a bit, I'm sure you'll be able to see why we had to keep it a secret."
"Maybe." Garion said it a bit doubtfully. "All this has happened too fast, though. I hadn't even got used to being a sorcerer yet, and now I have to be a king, too. It's all got me off balance."
"You're adaptable, Garion," Aunt Pol told him, her needle flickering.
"You'd better give him the amulet, Pol," Belgarath mentioned. "The princess should be here soon."
"I was just about to, father," she replied, laying aside her sewing.
"What's this?" Garion asked.
"The princess has a gift for you," Aunt Pol said. "A ring. It's a bit ostentatious, but act suitably pleased."
"Shouldn't I have something to give her in return?"
"I've already taken care of that, dear." She took a small velvet box from the table beside her chair. "You'll give her this." She handed the box to Garion.
Inside the box lay a silver amulet, a bit smaller than Garion's own. Represented on its face in minute and exquisite detail was the likeness of that huge tree which stood in solitary splendor in the center of the Vale of Aldur. There was a crown woven into the branches. Garion held the amulet in his right hand, trying to determine if it had some of the same kind of force about it that he knew was in the one he wore. There was something there, but it didn't feel at all the same.
"It doesn't seem to be like ours," he concluded.
"It isn't," Belgarath replied. "Not exactly, anyway. Ce'Nedra's not a sorceress, so she wouldn't be able to use one like yours."
"You said 'not exactly.' It does have some kind of power, then?"
"It will give her certain insights," the old man answered, "if she's patient enough to learn how to use it."
"Exactly what are we talking about when we use the word 'insight'?"
"An ability to see and hear things she wouldn't otherwise be able to see or hear," Belgarath specified.
"Is there anything else I should know about it before she gets here?"
"Just tell her that it's a family heirloom," Aunt Pol suggested. "It belonged to my sister, Beldaran."
"You should keep it, Aunt Pol," Garion objected. "I can get something else for the princess."
"No, dear. Beldaran wants her to have it."
Garion found Aunt Pol's habit of speaking of people long dead in the present tense a trifle disconcerting, so he didn't pursue the matter. There was a light tap on the door.
"Come in, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol answered.
The little princess was wearing a rather plain green gown open at the throat, and her expression was somewhat subdued.
"Come over by the fire;" Aunt Pol told her. "The evenings are still a bit chilly this time of year."
"Is it always this cold and damp in Riva?" Ce'Nedra asked, coming to the fire.
"We're a long ways north of Tol Honeth," Garion pointed out.
"I'm aware of that," she said with that little edge in her voice.
"I always thought it was customary to wait until after the wedding to start bickering," Belgarath observed slyly. "Have the rules changed?"
"Just practicing, Belgarath," Ce'Nedra replied impishly. "Just practicing for later on."
The old man laughed. "You can be a charming little girl when you put your mind to it," he said.
Ce'Nedra bowed mockingly. Then she turned to Garion. "It's customary for a Tolnedran girl to give her betrothed a gift of a certain value," she informed him. She held up a heavy, ornate ring set with several glowing stones. "This ring belonged to Ran Horb II, the greatest of all Tolnedran Emperors. Wearing it might help you to be a better king."
Garion sighed. It was going to be one of those meetings. "I'll be honored to wear the ring," he replied as inoffensively as possible, "and I'd like for you to wear this." He handed her the velvet box. "It belonged to the wife of Riva Iron-grip, Aunt Pol's sister."
Ce'Nedra took the box and opened it. "Why, Garion," she exclaimed, "it's lovely." She held the amulet in her hand, turning it to catch the firelight. "The tree looks so real that you can almost smell the leaves."
"Thank you," Belgarath replied modestly.
"You made it?" The princess sounded startled.
The old man nodded. "When Polgara and Beldaran were children, we lived in the Vale. There weren't very many silversmiths there, so I had to make their amulets myself. Aldur helped me with some of the finer details."
"This is a priceless gift, Garion." The tiny girl actually glowed, and Garion began to have some hope for the future. "Help me with it," she commanded, handing him the two ends of the chain and turning with one hand holding aside the mass of her deep red hair.
"Do you accept the gift, Ce'Nedra?" Aunt Pol asked her, giving the question a peculiar emphasis.
"Of course I do," the princess replied.
"Without reservation and of your own free will?" Aunt Pol pressed, her eyes intent.
"I accept the gift, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra replied. "Fasten it for me, Garion. Be sure it's secure. I wouldn't want it to come undone."
"I don't think you'll need to worry too much about that," Belgarath told her.
Garion's fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the curious clasp.
His fingertips tingled peculiarly as the two ends locked together with a faintly audible click.
"Hold the amulet in your hand, Garion," Aunt Pol instructed him. Ce'Nedra lifted her chin and Garion took the medallion in his right hand. Then Aunt Pol and Belgarath closed their hands over his. Something peculiar seemed to pass through their hands and into the talisman at Ce'Nedra's throat.
"Now you are sealed to us, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol told the princess quietly, "with a tie that can never be broken."
Ce'Nedra looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then her eyes slowly widened and a dreadful suspicion began to grow in them.
"Take it off," she told Garion sharply.
"He can't do that," Belgarath informed her, sitting back down and picking up his tankard again.
Ce'Nedra was tugging at the chain, pulling with both hands.
"You'll just scratch your neck, dear," Aunt Pol warned gently. "The chain won't break; it can't be cut; and it won't come off over your head. You'll never have to worry about losing it."
"You did this," the princess stormed at Garion.
"Did what?"
"Put this slave chain on me. It wasn't enough that I had to bow to you; now you've put me in chains as well."
"I didn't know," he protested.
"Liar!" she screamed at him. Then she turned and fled the room, sobbing bitterly.
GARION WAS IN a sour mood. The prospect of another day of ceremony and tedious conferences was totally unbearable, and he had risen early to escape from the royal bedchamber before the insufferably polite appointment secretary with his endless lists could arrive to nail down the entire day. Garion privately detested the inoffensive fellow, even though he knew the man was only doing his job. A king's time had to be organized and scheduled, and it was the appointment secretary's task to take care of that. And so, each morning after breakfast, there came that respectful tapping at the door, and the appointment secretary would enter, bow, and then proceed to arrange the young king's day, minute by minute. Garion was morbidly convinced that somewhere, probably hidden away and closely guarded, was the ultimate master list that laid out the schedule for the rest of his life- including his royal funeral.
But this day dawned too gloriously for thoughts of stuffy formality and heavy conference. The sun had come boiling up out of the Sea of the Winds, touching the snowfields atop the craggy peaks with a blushing pink, and the morning shadows in the deep valleys above the city were a misty blue. The smell of spring pushed urgently in from the little garden outside his window, and Garion knew he must escape, if only for an hour or so. He dressed quickly in tunic, hose, and soft Rivan boots, rather carefully selecting clothes as unroyal as his wardrobe offered. Pausing only long enough to belt on his sword, he crept out of the royal apartment. He even considered riot taking along his guards, but prudently decided against that.
They were at a standstill in the search for the man who had tried to kill him in that dim hallway, but both Lelldorin and Garion had discovered that the outer garments of any number of Rivans needed repair. The gray cloak was not a ceremonial garment, but rather was something thrown on for warmth. It was a sturdy, utilitarian covering, and quite a number of such robes had been allowed to fall into a condition of shocking disrepair. Moreover, now that spring was here, men would soon stop wearing them, and the only clue to the attacker's identity would be locked away in a closet somewhere.
Garion brooded about that as he wandered moodily through the silent corndors of the Citadel with two mailed guards following at a respectful distance. The attempt, he reasoned, had not come from a Grolim. Aunt Pol's peculiar ability to recognize the mind of a Grolim would have alerted her instantly. In all probability the attacker had not been a foreigner of any kind. There were too few foreigners on the island to make that very likely. It had to be a Rivan, but why would a Rivan want to kill the king who had just returned after thirteen hundred years?
He sighed with perplexity over the problem and let his mind drift off to other matters. He wished that he were only Garion again; he wished that more than anything. He wished that it might be possible for him to awaken in some out-of the-way inn somewhere and start out in the silver light of daybreak to ride alone to the top of the next hill to see what lay beyond. He sighed again. He was a public person now, and such freedom was denied him. He was coldly certain that he was never going to have a moment to himself again.
As he passed an open doorway, he suddenly heard a familiar voice. "Sin creeps into our minds the moment we let our thoughts stray," Relg was saying. Garion stopped, motioning his guards to silence.
"Must everything be a sin?" Taiba asked. Inevitably they were together. They had been together almost continually from the moment Relg had rescued Taiba from her living entombment in the cave beneath Rak Cthol. Garion was almost certain that neither of them was actually conscious of that fact. Moreover, he had seen evidence of discomfort, not only on Taiba's face, but on Relg's as well, whenever they were apart. Something beyond the control of either of them drew them together.
"The world is filled with sin," Relg declared. "We must guard against it constantly. We must stand jealous guard over our purity against all forms of temptation."
"That would be very tiresome." Taiba sounded faintly amused.
"I thought you wanted instruction," Relg accused her. "If you just came here to mock me, I'll leave right now."
"Oh, sit down, Relg," she told him. "We'll never get anywhere with this if you take offense at everything I say."
"Have you no idea at all about the meaning of religion?" he asked after a moment. He actually sounded curious about it.
"In the slave pens, the word religion meant death. It meant having your heart cut out."
"That was a Grolim perversion. Didn't you have a religion of your own?"
"The slaves came from all over the world, and they prayed to many Gods - usually for death."
"What about your own people? Who is your God?"
"I was told that his name is Mara. We don't pray to him though - not since he abandoned us."
"It's not man's place to accuse the Gods," Relg told her sternly. "Man's duty is to glorify his God and pray to him - even if the prayers aren't answered."
"And what about the God's duty to man?" she asked pointedly. "Can a God not be negligent as well as a man? Wouldn't you consider a God negligent if he allowed his children to be enslaved and butchered - or if he allowed his daughters to be given as a reward to other slaves when they pleased their masters - as I was?"
Relg struggled with that painful question.
"I think you've led a very sheltered life, Relg," she told the zealot. "I think you have a very limited idea of human suffering - of the kinds of things men can do to other men - and women - apparently with the full permission of the Gods."
"You should have killed yourself," he said stubbornly.
"Whatever for?"
"To avoid corruption, naturally."
"You are an innocent, aren't you? I didn't kill myself because I wasn't ready to die. Even in the slave pens, life can be sweet, Relg, and death is bitter. What you call corruption is only a small thing - and not even always unpleasant."
"Sinful womanl" he gasped.
"You worry too much about that, Relg," she advised him. "Cruelty is a sin; lack of compassion is a sin. But that other little thing? I hardly think so. I begin to wonder about you. Could it be that this UL of yours is not quite so stern and unforgiving as you seem to believe? Does he really want all these prayers and rituals and grovelings? Or are they your way to hide from your God? So you think that praying in a loud voice and pounding your head on the ground will keep him from seeing into your heart?"
Relg was making strangled noises.
"If our Gods really loved us, they'd want our lives filled with joy," she continued relentlessly. "But you hate joy for some reason - probably because you're afraid of it. Joy is not sin, Relg; joy is a kind of love, and I think the Gods approve of it - even if you don't."
"You're hopelessly depraved."
"Perhaps so," she admitted casually, "but at least I look life right in the face. I'm not afraid of it, and I don't try to hide from it."
"Why are you doing this?" he demanded of her in an almost tragic voice. "Why must you forever follow me and mock me with your eyes?"
"I don't really know," she replied, sounding almost puzzled. "You're not really that attractive. Since we left Rak Cthol, I've seen dozens of men who interested me much more. At first it was because I knew that I made you nervous and because you were afraid of me. I rather enjoyed that, but lately there's more to it than that. It doesn't make any sense, of course. You're what you are, and I'm what I am, but for some reason I want to be with you." She paused. "Tell me, Relg - and don't try to lie about it - would you really want me to go away and never see you again?"
There was a long and painful silence. "May UL forgive me!" Relg groaned finally.
"I'm sure he will, Relg," she assured him gently.
Garion moved quietly on down the corridor away from the open door. Something he had not understood before had begun to become quite clear. "You're doing this, aren't you?" he asked silently.
"Naturally, " the dry voice in his mind replied.
"But why those two?"
"Because it's necessary, Belgarion. I don't do things out of whim. We're all compelled by necessity - even 1. Actually, what's going on between Relg and Taiba doesn't remotely concern you. "
Garion was a little stung by that.
"I thought well-"
"You assumed that you were my only care - that you were the absolute center of the universe? You're not, of course. There are other things almost equally important, and Relg and Taiba are centrally involved in one of those things. Your participation in that particular matter is peripheral at the most."
"They're going to be desperately unhappy if you force them together, " Garion accused.
"That doesn't matter in the slightest. Their being together is necessary. Yau're wrong though. It will take them a while to get used to it, but once they do, they're both going to be very happy. Obedience to necessity does have its rewards, after all."
Garion struggled with that idea for a while, then finally gave up. His own problems intruded once more on his thoughts. Inevitably, as he always did when he was troubled, he went looking for Aunt Pol. He found her sitting before the cozy fire in her apartment, sipping a cup of fragrant tea and watching through the window as the rosy morning sunlight set the snowfields above the city ablaze.
"You're up early," she observed as he entered.
"I wanted to talk to you," he told her, "and the only way I ever get the chance to do what I want is to leave my room before the man with my schedule for the day shows up." He flung himself into a chair. "They never give me a minute to myself."
"You're an important person now, dear."
"That wasn't my idea." He stared moodily out the window. "Grandfather's all right now, isn't he?" he asked suddenly.
"What gave you that idea?"
"Well - the other day, when we gave Ce'Nedra the amulet - didn't he - sort of -?"
"Most of that came from you, dear," she replied.
"I felt something else."
"That could have been just me. It was a pretty subtle thing, and even I couldn't be sure if he had any part in it."
"There has to be some way we can find out."
"There's only one way, Garion, and that's for him to do something."
"All right, let's go off with him someplace and have him try - something sort of small, maybe."
"And how would we explain that to him?"
"You mean he doesn't know?" Garion sat up quickly.
"He might, but I rather doubt it."
"You didn't tell him?"
"Of course not. If he has any doubts whatsoever about his ability, he'll fail, and if he fails once, that will be the end of it."
"I don't understand."
"A very important part of it is knowing that it's going to work. If you aren't absolutely sure, then it won't. That's why we can't tell him."
Garion thought about it. "I suppose that makes sense, but isn't it sort of dangerous? I mean, what if something really urgent comes up, and he tries to do something about it, and we all of a sudden find out that he can't?"
"You and I would have to deal with it then, dear."
"You seem awfully calm about it."
"Getting excited doesn't really help very much, Garion."
The door burst open, and Queen Layla, her hair awry and her crown slipping precariously over one ear, stormed in. "I won't have it, Polgara," she declared angrily. "I absolutely won't have it. You've got to talk to him. Oh, excuse me, your Majesty," the plump little queen added, noticing Garion. "I didn't see you." She curtsied gracefully.
"Your Highness," Garion replied, getting up hurriedly and bowing in return.
"With whom did you wish me to speak, Layla?" Aunt Pol asked. "
Anheg. He insists that my poor husband sit up and drink with him every night. Fulrach's so sick this morning that he can barely lift his head off the pillow. That great bully of a Cherek is ruining my husband's health."
"Anheg likes your husband, Layla. It's his way of showing his friendship."
"Can't they be friends without drinking so much?"
"I'll talk to him, dear," Aunt Pol promised.
Mollified somewhat, Queen Layla departed, curtsying again to Garion.
Garion was about to return to the subject of Belgarath's infirmity when Aunt Pol's maid came in to announce Lady Merel.
Barak's wife entered the room with a somber expression. "Your Majesty," she greeted Garion perfunctorily.
Garion rose again to bow and politely respond. He was getting rather tired of it.
"I need to talk with you, Polgara," Merel declared.
"Of course," Aunt Pol replied. "Would you excuse us, Garion?"
"I'll wait in the next room," he offered. He crossed to the door, but did not close it all the way. Once again his curiosity overcame his good manners.
"They all keep throwing it in my face," Merel blurted almost before he was out of the room.
"What's that?"
"Well-" Merel hesitated, then spoke quite firmly. "My lord and I were not always on the best of terms," she admitted.
"That's widely known, Merel," Aunt Pol told her diplomatically.
"That's the whole problem," Merel complained. "They all keep laughing behind their hands and waiting for me to go back to being the way I was before." A note of steel crept into her voice. "Well, it's not going to happen," she declared, "so they can laugh all they want to."
"I'm glad to hear that, Merel," Aunt Pol replied.
"Oh, Polgara," Merel said with a helpless little laugh, "he looks so much like a great shaggy bear, but he's so gentle inside. Why couldn't I have seen that before? All those years wasted."
"You had to grow up, Merel," Aunt Pol told her. "It takes some people longer, that's all."
After Lady Merel had left, Garion came back in and looked quizzically at Aunt Pol. "Has it always been like that?" he asked her. "What I mean is - do people always come to you when they've got problems?"
"It happens now and then," she replied. "People seem to think that I'm very wise. Usually they already know what they have to do, so I listen to them and agree with them and give them a bit of harmless support. It makes them happy. I set aside a certain amount of time each morning for these visits. They know that I'm here if they feel the need for someone to talk to. Would you care for some tea?"
He shook his head. "Isn't it an awful burden - all these other people's problems, I mean?"
"It's not really that heavy, Garion," she answered. "Their problems are usually rather small and domestic. It's rather pleasant to deal with things that aren't quite so earthshaking. Besides, I don't mind visitors whatever their reason for coming."
The next visitor, however, was Queen Islena, and her problem was more serious. Garion withdrew again when the maid announced that the Queen of Cherek wished to speak privately with the Lady Polgara; but, as before, his curiosity compelled him to listen at the door of the adjoining chamber.
"I've tried everything I can think of, Polgara," Islena declared, "but Grodeg won't let me go."
"The High Priest of Belar?"
"He knows everything, naturally," Islena confirmed. "All his underlings reported my every indiscretion to him. He threatens to tell Anheg if I try to sever my connection with the Bear-cult. How could I have been so stupid? He's got his hand around my throat."
"Just how indiscreet have you been, Islena?" Aunt Pol asked the queen pointedly.
"I went to some of their rituals," Islena confessed. "I put a few cult members in positions in the palace. I passed some information along to Grodeg."
"Which rituals, Islena?"
"Not those, Polgara," Islena replied in a shocked voice. "I'd never stoop to that."
"So all you really did was attend a few harmless gatherings where people dress up in bearskins and let a few cultists into the palace where there were probably a dozen or more already anyway - and pass on a bit of harmless palace gossip? - It was harmless, wasn't it?"
"I didn't pass on any state secrets, Polgara, if that's what you mean," the queen said stiffly.
"Then Grodeg doesn't really have any hold over you, Islena."
"What should I do, Polgara?" the queen asked in an anguished voice.
"Go to Anheg. Tell him everything."
"I can't."
"You must. Otherwise Grodeg will force you into something worse. Actually, the situation could be turned to Anheg's advantage. Tell me exactly how much you know about what the cult is doing?"
"They've begun creating chapters among the peasants, for one thing."
"They've never done that before," Aunt Pol mused. "The cult's always been restricted to the nobility and the priesthood."
"I can't be sure," Islena told her, "but I think they're preparing for something major - some kind of confrontation."
"I'll mention it to my father," Aunt Pol replied. "I think he'll want to take steps. As long as the cult was the plaything of the priesthood and the minor nobility, it wasn't really all that important, but rousing the peasantry is quite another thing."
"I've heard a few other things as well," Islena continued. "I think they're trying to penetrate Rhodar's intelligence service. If they can get a few people in the right places in Boktor, they'll have access to most of the state secrets in the West."
"I see." Aunt Pol's voice was as cold as ice.
"I heard Grodeg talking once," Islena said in a tone of distaste. "It was before he found out that I didn't want anything more to do with him. He'd been reading the auguries and the signs in the heavens, and he was talking about the return of the Rivan King. The cult takes the term 'Overlord of the West' quite seriously. I honestly believe that their ultimate goal is to elevate Belgarion to the status of Emperor of all the West - Aloria, Sendaria, Arendia, Tolnedra - even Nyissa."
"That's not how the term was meant to be interpreted," Aunt Pol objected.
"I know," Islena replied, "but Grodeg wants to twist it until it comes out that way. He's a total fanatic, and he wants to convert all the people of the West to Helar - by the sword, if necessary."
"That idiot!" Aunt Pol raged. "He'd start a general war in the West if he tried that - and even set the Gods to wrangling. What is there about Alorns that makes them continually want to expand to the south? Those boundaries were established by the Gods themselves. I think it's time for someone to put his foot down on Grodeg's neck firmly. Go to Anheg immediately. Tell him everything and then tell him that I want to see him. I imagine that my father's going to want to discuss the matter with him as well."
"Anheg's going to be furious with me, Polgara," Islena faltered.
"I don't think so," Aunt Pol assured her. "As soon as he realizes that you've exposed Grodeg's plan, he'll probably be rather grateful. Let him think that you went along with Grodeg simply to get more information. That's a perfectly respectable motive - and it's the sort of thing a good wife would do."
"I hadn't thought of that," Islena said, already sounding more sure of herself. "It would have been a brave thing to do, wouldn't it?"
"Absolutely heroic, Islena," Aunt Pol replied. "Now go to Anheg."
"I will, Polgara." There was the sound of quick, determined steps, and then a door closed.
"Garion, come back in here." Aunt Pol's voice was firm. He opened the door.
"You were listening?" It wasn't really a question.
"Well-"
"We're going to have to have a talk about that," she told him. "But it doesn't really matter this time. Go find your grandfather and tell him that I want to see him immediately. I don't care what he's doing. Bring him to me now."
"But how do we know he can do anything?" Garion demanded. "I mean, if he's lost his power-"
"There are many kinds of power, Garion. Sorcery is only one of them. Now go fetch him at once."
"Yes, Aunt Pol," Garion replied, already moving toward the door.
THE HIGH PRIEST of Belar was an imposing-looking man nearly seven feet tall. He had a long gray beard and burning eyes sunk deep in their sockets beneath bristling black eyebrows. He arrived from Val Alorn the following week after the seemingly endless negotiations had finally produced the official betrothal document. Accompanying him as a kind of retinue were two dozen hard-faced warriors dressed in bearskins.
"Bear-cultists," Barak observed sourly to Garion and Silk as the three of them stood atop the wall of the Citadel, watching the High Priest and his men mounting the steps from the harbor in the bright spring sunshine.
"I didn't say anything about bringing soldiers with him," Garion objected indignantly.
"I imagine he took it upon himself," Silk replied. "Grodeg's very good at taking things upon himself."
"I wonder how he'd like it if I threw him into a dungeon," Garion said hotly. "Do I have a dungeon?"
"We could improvise one, I suppose." Barak grinned at him. "Some nice damp cellar someplace. You might have to import some rats, though. The island's reputed to be free of them."
"You're making fun of me," Garion accused his friend, flushing slightly.
"Now you know I wouldn't do that, Garion," Barak replied, pulling at his beard.
"I'd talk with Belgarath before I had Grodeg clapped in irons, though," Silk suggested. "The political implications might go a bit further than you intend. Whatever you do, don't let Grodeg talk you into letting him leave any of his men behind. He's been trying to get a foothold on the Isle of the Winds for twenty years now. Not even Brand has had the nerve to let him go that far."
"Brand?"
"Isn't it obvious? I wouldn't want to say that Brand's a cult member, but his sympathies certainly lie in that direction."
Garion was shocked at that, and a little sick. "What do you think I ought to do?" he asked.
"Don't try to play politics with these people," Barak replied. "Grodeg's here to conduct the official betrothal ceremony. Just let it go at that."
"He'll try to talk to me, though," Garion fretted. "He's going to try to make me lead an invasion of the southern kingdoms so that he can convert the Arends and Tolnedrans and Nyissans to the worship of Belar."
"Where did you hear that?" Silk asked curiously.
"I'd rather not say," Garion evaded.
"Does Belgarath know?"
Garion nodded. "Aunt Pol told him."
Silk chewed thoughtfully on a fingernail. "Just be stupid," he said finally.
"What?"
"Pretend to be a simple country bumpkin with no idea of what's going on. Grodeg's going to do everything he can to get you alone so he can wring concessions out of you. Just keep smiling and nodding foolishly, and every time he makes a proposal, send for Belgarath. Let him think that you can't make a single decision on your own."
"Won't that make me seem - well -?"
"Do you really care what he thinks?"
"Well, not really, I guess, but "
"It will drive him crazy," Barak pointed out with a wicked grin. "He'll think that you're a complete idiot - a ripe plum ready for picking. But he'll realize that if he wants you, he'll have to fight Belgarath to get you. He'll be tearing out his beard in frustration before he leaves."
He turned and looked admiringly at Silk. "That's really a terrible thing to do to a man like Grodeg, you know."
Silk smirked. "Isn't it though?"
The three of them stood grinning at each other and finally burst into laughter.
The official betrothal ceremony was conducted the following day. There had been a great deal of haggling about who should enter the Hall of the Rivan King first, but that difficulty had been overcome by Belgarath's suggestion that Garion and Ce'Nedra could enter arm in arm. "This is all in preparation for a wedding, after all," he had pointed out. "We might as well start off with a semblance at least of friendship."
Garion was very nervous as the hour approached. His princess had been smoldering since the incident with the amulet, and he was almost certain that there was going to be trouble. But to his surprise, Ce'Nedra was radiant as the two of them waited alone together in a small antechamber while the official guests gathered in the Hall. Garion fidgeted a great deal and walked up and down, nervously adjusting his clothing, but Ce'Nedra sat rather demurely, patiently awaiting the trumpet fanfare which was to announce their entrance.
"Garion," she said after a while.
"Yes?"
"Do you remember that time we bathed together in the Wood of the Dryads?"
"We did not bathe together," Garion replied quickly, blushing to the roots of his hair.
"Well, very nearly." She brushed his distinction aside. "Do you realize that Lady Polgara kept throwing us together like that all the time we were travelling? She knew that all this was going to happen, didn't she?"
"Yes," Garion admitted.
"So she kept shoving us at each other, hoping something might happen between us."
Garion thought about that. "You're probably right," he concluded.
"She likes to arrange people's lives for them."Ce'Nedra sighed. "Look at all the opportunities we missed," she said somewhat regretfully.
"Ce'Nedral" Garion gasped, shocked at her suggestion.
She giggled a bit wickedly. Then she sighed again. "Now it's all going to be dreadfully official - and probably not nearly as much fun."
Garion's face was flaming by now.
"Anyway," she continued, "that time we bathed together - do you remember that I asked you if you'd like to kiss me?"
Garion nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"I never got that kiss, you know," she said archly, standing up and crossing the small room to him, "and I think I'd like it now."
She took hold of the front of his doublet firmly with both little hands. "You owe me a kiss, Belgarion of Riva, and a Tolnedran always collects what people owe her." The look she directed up through her lashes at him smoldered dangerously.
Just outside, the trumpets blared out an extended fanfare.
"We're supposed to go in now," Garion sputtered a bit desperately.
"Let them wait," she murmured, her arms sliding up around his neck.
Garion tried for a quick, perfunctory kiss, but his princess had other ideas. Her little arms were surprisingly strong, and her fingers locked in his hair. The kiss was lingering, and Garion's knees began to tremble.
"There," Ce'Nedra breathed when she finally released him.
"We'd better go in," Garion suggested as the trumpets blared again.
"In a moment. Did you muss me?" She turned around so that he could inspect her.
"No," he replied. "Everything still seems to be in order."
She shook her head rather disapprovingly. "Try to do a little better next time," she told him. "Otherwise I might start to think that you're not taking me seriously."
"I'm never going to understand you, Ce'Nedra."
"I know," she said with a mysterious little smile. Then she patted his cheek gently. "And I'm going to do everything I can to keep it that way. Shall we go in? We really shouldn't keep our guests waiting, you know."
"That's what I said in the first place."
"We were busy then," she declared with a certain grand indifference. "Just a moment." She carefully smoothed his hair. "There. That's better. Now give me your arm."
Garion extended his arm, and his princess laid her hand on it. Then he opened the door to the third chorus from the trumpets. They entered the Hall, and an excited buzz ran through the crowd assembled there. Taking his cue from Ce'Nedra, Garion moved at a stately pace, his face sober and regal-looking.
"Not quite so grim," she whispered. "Smile just a little - and nod occasionally. It's the thing to do."
"If you say so," he replied. "I really don't know too much about this sort of thing."
"You'll be just fine," she assured him.
Smiling and nodding to the spectators, the royal couple passed through the Hall to the chair that had been placed near the front for the princess. Garion held the chair for her, then bowed and mounted the dais to his throne. As always happened, the Orb of Aldur began to glow as soon as he sat down. This time, however, it seemed to have a faint pink cast to it.
The official betrothal ceremony began with a rolling invocation delivered in a thunderous voice by the High Priest of Belar. Grodeg took full advantage of the dramatics of the situation.
"Tiresome old windbag, isn't he?" Belgarath murmured from his accustomed place at the right of the throne.
"What were you and Ce'Nedra doing in there?" Aunt Pol asked Garion.
"Nothing," Garion replied, blushing furiously.
"Really? And it took you all that time? How extraordinary."
Grodeg had begun reading the first clauses of the betrothal agreement. To Garion they sounded like pure gibberish. At various points Grodeg stopped his reading to look sternly at Garion.
"Does His Majesty, Belgarion of Riva, agree to this?" he demanded each time.
"I do," Garion replied.
"Does Her Highness Ce'Nedra of the Tolnedran Empire agree to this?" Grodeg asked the princess.
Ce'Nedra responded in a clear voice, "I do."
"How are you two getting along?" Belgarath asked, ignoring the droning voice of the clergyman.
"Who knows?" Garion answered helplessly. "I can't tell from one minute to the next what she's going to do."
"That's the way it's supposed to be," Aunt Pol told him.
"I don't suppose you'd consider explaining that."
"No, dear," she replied with a smile as mysterious as Ce'Nedra's had been.
"I didn't really think so," he grumbled.
Garion thought about Ce'Nedra's rather open invitation to muss her during the interminable reading of the document which was firmly nailing down the remainder of his life, and the more he thought about it, the more he found the notion of a bit of polite mussing attractive. He rather hoped that the princess would linger after the ceremony and that they might go someplace private to discuss it. Following Grodeg's pompous benediction, however, Ce'Nedra was immediately surrounded by all the younger girls in the court and swept away for some private celebration of their own. From all the giggling and wicked little glances cast in his direction, he concluded that the conversation at their little get-together was going to be very frank, probably naughty, and that the less he knew about it the better.
As Silk and Barak had predicted, the High Priest of Belar tried several times to speak to Garion privately. Each time, however, Garion put on a great show of ingenuousness and sent immediately for Belgarath. Grodeg left the island with his entire retinue the following day. To add a final insult to the whole matter, Garion insisted that he and Belgarath accompany the fuming ecclesiast to his ship to see him off - and to be certain that no Bear-cultist might inadvertently be left behind.
"Whose idea was all of this?" Belgarath inquired as he and Garion climbed the steps back to the Citadel.
"Silk and I worked it out," Garion replied smugly.
"I might have known."
"I thought things went quite well," Garion congratulated himself.
"You've made yourself a dangerous enemy, you know."
"We can handle him."
"You're getting to be very free with that 'we,' Garion," Belgarath said disapprovingly.
"We're all in this together, aren't we, Grandfather?"
Belgarath looked at him helplessly for a moment and then began to laugh.
In the days that followed Grodeg's departure, however, there was little occasion for laughter. Once the official ceremonies were over, the Alorn Kings, King Fulrach, and various advisers and generals got down to business. Their subject was war.
"The most recent reports I have from Cthol Murgos indicate that Taur Urgas is preparing to move the southern Murgos up from Rak Hagga as soon as the weather breaks on the eastern coast," King Rhodar advised them.
"And the Nadraks?" King Anheg asked.
"They appear to be mobilizing, but there's always a question about the Nadraks. They play their own game, so it takes a lot of Grolims to whip them into line. The Thulls just obey orders."
"The Thulls don't really concern anyone," Brand observed. "The key to the whole situation is how many Malloreans are going to be able to take the field against us."
"There's a staging area for them being set up at Thull Zelik," Rhodar reported, "but they're also waiting for the weather to break in the Sea of the East."
King Anheg frowned thoughtfully. "Malloreans are bad sailors," he mused. "They won't move until summer, and they'll hug the north coast all the way to Thull Zelik. We need to get a fleet into the Sea of the East as soon as possible. If we can sink enough of their ships and drown enough of their soldiers, we might be able to keep them out of the war entirely. I think we should strike in force into Gar og Nadrak. Once we get into the forests, my men can build ships. We'll sail down the River Cordu and out into the Sea of the East."
"Thy plan hath merit, your Majesty," Mandorallen approved, studying the large map hanging on the wall. "The Nadraks are fewest in number and farthest removed from the hordes of southern Cthol Murgos."
King Rhodar shook his head stubbornly. "I know you want to get to the sea as quickly as possible, Anheg," he objected, "but you're committing me to a campaign in the Nadrak forest. I need open country to maneuver in. If we strike at the Thulls, we can cut directly across to the upper reaches of the River Mardu, and you can sail on down to the sea that way."
"There aren't that many trees in Mishrak ac Thull," Anheg protested.
"Why build ships out of green lumber if you don't have to?" Rhodar asked. "Why not sail up the Aldur and then portage across?"
"You want my men to portage ships up the eastern escarpment? Rhodar, be serious."
"We have engineers, Anheg. They can devise ways to lift your ships to the top of the escarpment."
Garion did not want to intrude his inexperience on the conference, but the question came out before he had time to think about it. "Have we decided where the final battle's going to be?" he asked.
"Which final battle was that, Garion?" Rhodar asked politely.
"When we meet them head-on - like Vo Mimbre."
"There won't be a Vo Mimbre in this war," Anheg told him. "Not if we can help it."
"Vo Mimbre was a mistake, Garion," Belgarath said quietly. "We all knew it, but there wasn't anything we could do about it."
"We won, didn't we?"
"That was pure luck, and you can't plan a campaign on the hope that you might get lucky. Nobody wanted the battle at Vo Mimbre - we didn't, and Kal Torak didn't, but nobody had any choice in the matter. We had to commit to battle before the second Angarak column arrived in the West. Kal Torak had been holding the southern Murgos and eastern Malloreans in reserve near Rak Hagga, and they started to march when he turned west from the siege of the Stronghold. If they'd been able to join forces with Kal Torak, there wouldn't have been enough men in all the West to meet them, so we had to fight. Vo Mimbre was the least objectionable battlefield."
"Why didn't Kal Torak just wait until they arrived?" Garion asked.
"You can't stop an army in unfriendly territory, King Belgarion," Colonel Brendig explained. "You have to keep moving, or the local populace destroys all the food and starts coming out at night to cut up your people. You can lose half your army that way."
"Kal Torak didn't want the meeting at Vo Mimbre any more than we did," Belgarath went on. "The column from Rak Hagga got caught in a spring blizzard in the mountains and bogged down for weeks. They finally had to turn back, and Torak was forced to fight at Vo Mimbre without any advantage of numbers, and nobody in his right mind goes into battle that way."
"Thy force should be larger by a quarter than thine adversary's," Mandorallen agreed, "else the outcome must be in doubt."
"By a third," Barak corrected in a rumbling voice. "By half if you can arrange it."
"Then all we're going to do is spread out all over the eastern half of the continent and fight a whole series of little battles?" Garion demanded incredulously. "That could take years - decades. It could go on for a century."
"If it has to," Belgarath told him bluntly. "What did you expect, Garion? A short little ride in the sunshine, a nice easy fight, and then home before winter? I'm afraid it won't be like that. You'd better get used to wearing armor and a sword, because you'll probably be dressed that way for most of the rest of your life. This is likely to be a very long war."
Garion's illusions were crumbling rapidly.
The door to the council room opened, then, and Olban, Brand's youngest son, entered and spoke with his father. The weather had turned blustery, and a spring storm was raking the island. Olban's gray Rivan cloak was dripping as he entered.
Dismayed by the prospect of year after year of campaigning in the East, Garion distractedly stared at the puddle forming around Olban's feet as the young man talked quietly with Brand. Then, out of habit, he lifted his eyes slightly to look at the hem of Olban's cloak. There was a small tear on the left corner of the cloak, and a scrap of cloth seemed to be missing.
Garion stared at the telltale rip for a moment without realizing exactly what it was he saw. Then he went suddenly cold. With a slight start, he jerked his eyes up to look at Olban's face. Brand's youngest son was perhaps Garion's own age, a bit shorter, but more muscular. His hair was pale blond, and his young face was serious, reflecting already the customary Rivan gravity. He seemed to be trying to avoid Garion's eyes, but showed no other sign of nervousness. Once, however, he looked inadvertently at the young king and seemed to flinch slightly as guilt rose clearly into his eyes. Garion had found the man who had tried to kill him.
The conference continued after that, but Garion did not hear any more of it. What was he to do? Had Olban acted alone, or were others involved? Had Brand himself been a part of it? It was so difficult to know what a Rivan was thinking. He trusted Brand, but the big Warder's connection with the Bear-cult gave a certain ambiguity to his loyalties. Could Grodeg be behind all this? Or perhaps a Grolim? Garion remembered the Earl of Jarvik, whose soul had been purchased by Asharak and who had mounted rebellion in Val Alorn. Had Olban fallen perhaps under the spell of the blood-red gold of Angarak as Jarvik had? But Riva was an island, the one place in the world where no Grolim could ever come. Garion discounted the possibility of bribery. In the first place, it was not in the Rivan character. In the second, Olban had not likely ever been in a situation to come into contact with a Grolim. Rather grimly, Garion decided on a course of action.
Lelldorin, of course, had to be kept out of it. The hot-headed young Asturian was incapable of the kind of delicate discretion that seemed to be called for. Lelldorin would reach for his sword, and the whole business would disintegrate rather rapidly after that.
When the conference broke up for the day late that afternoon, Garion went looking for Olban. He did not take a guard with him, but he did wear his sword.
As chance had it, it was in a dim corndor not unlike the one where the assassination attempt had taken place that the young king finally ran Brand's youngest son down. Olban was coming along the passageway in one direction, and Garion was going the other. Olban's face paled slightly when he saw his king, and he bowed deeply to hide his expression. Garion nodded as if intending to pass without speaking, but turned after the two of them had gone by each other. "Olban," he said quietly.
Brand's son turned, a look of dread on his face.
"I noticed that the corner of your cloak is torn," Garion said in an almost neutral tone. "When you take it to have it mended, this might help." He took the scrap of cloth out from under his doublet and of fered it to the pale-faced young Rivan.
Olban stared wide-eyed at him, not moving.
"And as long as we're at it," Garion continued, "you might as well take this, too. I think you dropped it somewhere." He reached inside his doublet again and took out the dagger with its bent point.
Olban started to tremble violently, then he suddenly dropped to his knees. "Please, your Majesty," he begged, "let me kill myself. If my father finds out what I've done, it will break his heart."
"Why did you try to kill me, Olban?" Garion asked.
"For love of my father," Brand's son confessed, tears welling up in his eyes. "He was ruler here in Riva until you came. Your arrival degraded him. I couldn't bear that. Please, your Majesty, don't have me dragged to the scaffold like a common criminal. Give me the dagger and I'll bury it in my heart right here. Spare my father this last humiliation."
"Don't talk nonsense," Garion told him, "and get up. You look silly down there on your knees."
"Your Majesty-" Olban began to protest.
"Oh, be still," Garion told him irritably. "Let me think for a moment." Dimly he began to see the glimmer of an idea. "All right," he said finally, "this is what we're going to do. You're going to take this knife and this wool scrap down to the harbor and throw them into the sea, and then you're going to go on about your life as if this had never happened."
"Your Majesty-"
"I'm not finished. Neither you nor I will ever speak of this again. I don't want any hysterical public confessions, and I absolutely forbid you to kill yourself. Do you understand me, Olban?"
Dumbly the young man nodded.
"I need your father's help too much to have this come out or for him to be distracted by personal tragedy. This did not happen, and that's an end of it. Take these and get out of my sight." He shoved the knife and the wool scrap into Olban's hands. He was suddenly infuriated. The weeks of looking nervously over his shoulder had all been so unnecessary - so useless. "Oh, one other thing, Olban," he added as the stricken young Rivan turned to leave. "Don't throw any more knives at me. If you want to fight, let me know, and we'll go someplace private and cut each other to ribbons, if that's what you want."
Olban fled sobbing.
"Very well done, Belgarion, " the dry voice complimented him.
"Oh, shut up," Garion said.
He slept very little that night. He had a few doubts about the wisdom of the course he had taken with Olban; but on the whole, he was satisfied that what he had done had been right. Olban's act had been no more than an impulsive attempt to erase what he believed to be his father's degradation. There had been no plot involved in it. Olban might resent Garion's magnanimous gesture, but he would not throw any more daggers at his king's back. What disturbed Garion's sleep the most during that restless night was Belgarath's bleak appraisal of the war upon which they were about to embark. He slept briefly on toward dawn and awoke from a dreadful nightmare with icy sweat standing out on his forehead. He had just seen himself, old and weary, leading a pitifully small army of ragged, gray-haired men into a battle they could not possibly win.
"There's an alternative, of cours - if you've recovered enough from your bout of peevishness to listen,"the voice in his mind advised him as he sat bolt upright and trembling in his bed.
"What?" Garion answered aloud. "Oh, that - I'm sorry I spoke that way. I was irritated, that's all."
"In many ways you're like Belgamth - remarkably - so his irritability seems to be hereditary."
"It's only natural, I suppose," Garion conceded. "You said there was an alternative. An alternative to what?"
"To this war that's giving you nightmares. Get dressed I want to show you something "
Garion climbed out of his bed and hastily jerked on his clothing. "Where are we going?" he asked, still speaking aloud.
"It isn't far,"
The room to which the other awareness directed him was musty and showed little evidence of use. The books and scrolls lining the shelves along its walls were dust-covered, and cobwebs draped the corners. Garion's lone candle cast looming shadows that seemed to dance along the walls.
"On the top shelf, " the voice told him. "The scroll wrapped in yellow linen. Take it down."
Garion climbed up on a chair and took down the scroll. "What is this?" he asked.
"The Mrin Codex, Take off the cover and start unrolling it. I'll tell you when to stop."
It took Garion a moment or two to get the knack of unrolling the bottom of the scroll with one hand and rolling up the top with the other.
"There," the voice said. "That's the passage. Read it."
Garion struggled over the words. The script was spidery, and he still did not read very well. "It doesn't make any sense," he complained.
"The man who wrote it down was insane, " the voice apologized, "and he was an imbecile besides, but he was all I had to work with. Try it again but loud "
Garion read: "Behold, it shall come to pass that in a certain moment, that which must be and that which must not be shall meet, and in that meeting shall be decided all that has gone before and all that will come after. Then will the Child of Light and the Child of Dark face each other in the broken tomb, and the stars will shudder and grow dim." Garion's voice trailed off. "It still doesn't make any sense," he objected.
"It's a bit obscure,"the voice admitted. "As I said, the man who wrote it was insane. I put the ideas there, but he used his own words to express them. "
"Who is the Child of Light?" Garion asked.
"You are for the moment at least. It changes. "
"Me?"
"Of course."
"Then who's this Child of Dark I'm supposed to meet?"
"Torak."
"Torak!"
"I should have thought that would be obvious by now. I told you once about the two possible destinies coming together finally. You and Torak - the Child of Light and the Child of Dark - embody those destinies."
"But Torak's asleep."
"Not any more. When you first put your hand on the Orb, the touch signalled his awakening. Even now he stirs on the edge of awareness, and his hand fumbles for the hilt of Cthrek-Goru, his black sword."
Garion went very cold. "Are you trying to say that I'm supposed to fight Torak? Alone?"
"It's going to happen, Belgarion. The universe itself rushes toward it. You can gather an army if you want, but your army - or Torak's - won't mean anything. As the Codex says, everything will be decided when you finally meet him. In the end, you'll face each other alone. That's what I meant by an alternative."
"What you're trying to say is that I'm just supposed to go off alone and find him and fight him?" Garion demanded incredulously.
"Approximately, yep "
"I won't do it."
"That's up to you. "
Garion struggled with it. "If I take an army, I'll just get a lot of people killed, and it won't make any difference in the end anyway?"
"Not the least bit. In the end it will just be you, Torak, Cthrek-Goru, and the sword of the Rivan King. "
"Don't I have any choice at all?"
"None whatsoever. "
"Do I have to go alone?" Garion asked plaintively.
"It doesn't say that."
"Could I take one or two people with me?"
"That's your decision, Belgarion. Just don't forget to take your sword "
He thought about it for the rest of the day. In the end his choice was obvious. As evening settled over the gray city of Riva, he sent for Belgarath and Silk. There were some problems involved, he knew, but there was no one else he could rely on. Even if his power were diminished, Belgarath's wisdom made Garion not even want to consider the undertaking without him. And Silk, of course, was just as essential. Garion reasoned that his own increasing talent for sorcery could see them through any difficulties if Belgarath should falter, and Silk could probably find ways to avoid most of the serious confrontations. Garion was confident that the three of them would be able to cope with whatever arose - until they found Torak. He didn't want to think about what might happen then.
When the two of them arrived, the young king was staring out the window with haunted eyes.
"You sent for us?" Silk asked.
"I have to make a journey," Garion replied in a scarcely audible voice.
"What's bothering you?" Belgarath said. "You look a bit sick."
"I just found out what it is that I'm supposed to do, Grandfather."
"Who told you?"
"He did."
Belgarath pursed his lips. "A bit premature, perhaps," he suggested. "I was going to wait a while longer, but I have to assume he knows what he's doing."
"Who is this we're talking about?" Silk asked.
"Garion has a periodic visitor," the old man answered. "A rather special visitor."
"That's a singularly unenlightening response, old friend."
"Are you sure you really want to know?"
"Yes," Silk replied, "I think I do. I get the feeling that I'm going to be involved in it."
"You're aware of the Prophecy?"
"Naturally."
"It appears that the Prophecy is a bit more than a statement about the future. It seems to be able to take a hand in things from time to time. It speaks to Garion on occasion."
Silk's eyes narrowed as he thought about that. "All right," he said finally.
"You don't seem surprised."
The rat-faced little man laughed. "Belgarath, nothing about this whole thing surprises me any more."
Belgarath turned back to Garion. "Exactly what did he tell you?"
"He showed me the Mrin Codex. Have you ever read it?"
"From end to end and backward and forward - even from side to side a couple of times. Which part did he show you?"
"The part about the meeting of the Child of Light and the Child of Dark."
"Oh," Belgarath said. "I was afraid it might have been that part. Did he explain it?"
Dumbly, Garion nodded.
"Well," the old man said with a penetrating look, "now you know the worst. What are you going to do about it?"
"He gave me a couple of alternatives," Garion said. "I can wait until we get an army together, and we can go off and fight back and forth with the Angaraks for generations. That's one way, isn't it?"
Belgarath nodded.
"Of course that will get millions of people killed for nothing, won't it?"
The old man nodded again.
Garion drew in a deep breath. "Or," he continued, "I can go off by myself and find Torak - wherever he is - and try to kill him."
Silk whistled, his eyes widening.
"He said that I didn't have to go alone," Garion added hopefully. "I asked him about that."
"Thanks," Belgarath said dryly.
Silk sprawled in a nearby chair, rubbing thoughtfully at his pointed nose. He looked at Belgarath. "You know that Polgara would skin the both of us inch by inch if we let him go off alone, don't you?"
Belgarath grunted.
"Where did you say Torak is?"
"Cthol Mishrak - in Mallorea."
"I've never been there."
"I have - a few times. It's not a very attractive place."
"Maybe time has improved it."
"That's not very likely."
Silk shrugged. "Maybe we ought to go with him - show him the way, that sort of thing. It's time I left Riva anyway. Some ugly rumors are starting to go around about me."
"It is rather a good time of year for travelling," Belgarath admitted, giving Garion a sly, sidelong glance.
Garion felt better already. He knew from their bantering tone that they had already made up their minds. He would not have to go in search of Torak alone. For now that was enough: there'd be time for worrying later. "All right," he said, "what do we do?"
"We creep out of Riva very quietly," Belgarath replied. "There's nothing to be gained by getting into any long discussions with your .Aunt Pol about this."
"The wisdom of ages," Silk agreed fervently. "When do we start?" His ferret eyes were very bright.
"The sooner the better." Belgarath shrugged.
"Did you have any plans for tonight?"
"Nothing I can't postpone."
"All right then. We'll wait until everyone goes to bed, and then we'll pick up Garion's sword and get started." "Which way do we go?" Garion asked him.
"Sendaria first," Belgarath replied, "and then across Drasnia to Gar og Nadrak. Then north to the archipelago that leads to Mallorea. It's a long way to Cthol Mishrak and the tomb of the one-eyed God."
"And then?"
"Then, Garion, we settle this once and for all."