The Belgariad: Pawn of ProphecyDavid Eddings THE BELGARIAD

The Belgariad: Pawn of ProphecyDavid Eddings
THE BELGARIAD
Part One
PAWN OF PROPHECY
For Theone
who told me stories but could not stay for mine
and for Arthur,
who showed me the way to become a man and who shows me still.
PROLOGUE
Being a History of the War of the Gods and the Acts of Belgarath the Sorcerer
-adapted from The Book of Alorn
WHEN THE WORLD was new, the seven Gods dwelt in harmony, and the races of man
were as one people. Belar, youngest of the Gods, was beloved by the Alorns. He
abode with them and cherished them, and they prospered in his care. The other
Gods also gathered peoples about them, and each God cherished his own people.
But Belar's eldest brother, Aldur, was God over no people. He dwelt apart from
men and Gods, until the day that a vagrant child sought him out. Aldur accepted
the child as his disciple and called him Belgarath. Belgarath learned the secret
of the Will and the Word and became a sorcerer. In the years that followed,
others also sought out the solitary God. They joined in brotherhood to learn at
the feet of Aldur, and time did not touch them.
Now it happened that Aldur took up a stone in the shape of a globe, no larger
than the heart of a child, and he turned the stone in his hand until it became a
living soul. The power of the living jewel, which men called the Orb of Aldur,
was very great, and Aldur worked wonders with it.
Of all the Gods, Torak was the most beautiful, and his people were the Angaraks.
They burned sacrifices before him, calling him Lord of Lords, and Torak found
the smell of sacrifice and the words of adoration sweet. The day came, however,
when he heard of the Orb of Aldur, and from that moment he knew no peace.
Finally, in a dissembling guise, he went to Aldur. "My brother," he said, "it is
not fitting that thou shouldst absent thyself from our company and counsel. Put
aside this jewel which hath seduced thy mind from our fellowship."
Aldur looked into his brother's soul and rebuked him. "Why lost thou seek
lordship and dominion, Torak? Is not Angarak enough for thee? Do not in thy
pride seek to possess the Orb, lest it slay thee."
Great was Torak's shame at the words of Aldur, and he raised his hand and smote
his brother. Taking the jewel, he fled.
The other Gods besought Torak to return the Orb, but he would not. Then the
races of man rose up and came against the hosts of Angarak and made war on them.
The wars of the Gods and of men raged across the land until, near the high
places of Korim, Torak raised the Orb and forced its will to join with his to
split the earth asunder. The mountains were cast down, and the sea came in. But
Belar and Aldur joined their wills and set limits upon the sea. The races of
man, however, were separated one from the others, and the Gods also.
Now when Torak raised the living Orb against the earth, its mother, it awoke and
began to glow with holy flame. The face of Torak was seared by the blue fire. In
pain he cast down the mountains; in anguish he cracked open the earth; in agony
he let in the sea. His left hand flared and burned to ashes, the flesh on the
left side of his face melted like wax, and his left eye boiled in its socket.
With a great cry, he cast himself into the sea to quench the burning, but his
anguish was without end.
When Torak rose from the water, his right side was still fair, but his left was
burned and scarred hideously by the fire of the Orb. In endless pain, he led his
people away to the east, where they built a great city on the plains of
Mallorea, which they called Cthol Mishrak, City of Night, for Torak hid his
maiming in darkness. The Angaraks raised an iron tower for their God and placed
the Orb in an iron cask in the topmost chamber. Often Torak stood before the
cask, then fled weeping, lest his yearning to look on the Orb overpower him and
he perish utterly.
The centuries rolled past in the lands of the Angarak, and they came to call
their maimed God Kal-Torak, both King and God.
Belar had taken the Alorns to the north. Of all men, they were the most hardy
and warlike, and Belar put eternal hatred for Angarak in their hearts. With
cruel swords and axes they ranged the north, even to the fields of eternal ice,
seeking a way to their ancient enemies.
Thus it was until the time when Cherek Bear-shoulders, greatest king of the
Alorns, traveled to the Vale of Aldur to seek out Belgarath the Sorcerer. "The
way to the north is open," he said. "The signs and the auguries are propitious.
Now is the time ripe for us to discover the way to the City of Night and regain
the Orb from One-eye."
Poledra, wife of Belgarath, was great with child, and he was reluctant to leave
her. But Cherek prevailed. They stole away one night to join Cherek's sons, Dras
Bull-neck, Algar Fleet-foot, and Riva Iron-grip.
Cruel winter gripped the northland, and the moors glittered beneath the stars
with frost and steel-gray ice. To seek out their way, Belgarath cast an
enchantment and took the shape of a great wolf. On silent feet, he slunk through
the snow-floored forests where the trees cracked and shattered in the sundering
cold. Grim frost silvered the ruff and shoulders of the wolf, and ever after the
hair and beard of Belgarath were silver.
Through snow and mist they crossed into Mallorea and came at last to Cthol
Mishrak. Finding a secret way into the city, Belgarath led them to the foot of
the iron tower. Silently they climbed the rusted stairs which had known no step
for twenty centuries. Fearfully they passed through the chamber where Torak
tossed in pain-haunted slumber, his maimed face hidden by a steel mask.
Stealthily they crept past the sleeping God in the smoldering darkness and came
at last to the chamber where lay the iron cask in which rested the living Orb.
Cherek motioned for Belgarath to take the Orb, but Belgarath refused. "I may not
touch it," he said, "lest it destroy me. Once it welcomed the touch of man or
God, but its will hardened when Torak raised it against its mother. It will not
be so used again. It reads our souls. Only one without ill intent, who is pure
enough to take it and convey it in peril of his life, with no thought of power
or possession, may touch it now."
"What man has no ill intent in the silence of his soul?" Cherek asked. But Riva
Iron-grip opened the cask and took up the Orb. Its fire shone through his
fingers, but he was not burned.
"So be it, Cherek," Belgarath said. "Your youngest son is pure. It shall be his
doom and the doom of all who follow him to bear the Orb and protect it." And
Belgarath sighed, knowing the burden he had placed upon Riva.
"Then his brothers and I will sustain him," Cherek said, "for so long as this
doom is upon him."
Riva muffled the Orb in his cloak and hid it beneath his tunic. They crept again
through the chambers of the maimed God, down the rusted stairs, along the secret
way to the gates of the city, and into the wasteland beyond.
Soon after, Torak awoke and went as always into the Chamber of the Orb. But the
cask stood open, and the Orb was gone. Horrible was the wrath of Kal-Torak.
Taking his great sword, he went down from the iron tower and turned and smote it
once, and the tower fell. To the Angaraks he cried out in a voice of thunder.
"Because you are become indolent and unwatchful and have let a thief steal that
for which I paid so dear, I will break your city and drive you forth. Angarak
shall wander the earth until Cthrag Yaska, the burning stone, is returned to
me." Then he cast down the City of Night in ruins and drove the hosts of Angarak
into the wilderness. Cthol Mishrak was no more.
Three leagues to the north, Belgarath heard the wailing from the city and knew
that Torak had awakened. "Now will he come after us," he said, "and only the
power of the Orb can save us. When the hosts are upon us, Iron-grip, take the
Orb and hold it so they may see it."
The hosts of Angarak came, with Torak himself in the forefront, but Riva held
forth the Orb so that the maimed God and his hosts might behold it. The Orb knew
its enemy. Its hatred flamed anew, and the sky became alight with its fury.
Torak cried out and turned away. The front ranks of the Angarak hosts were
consumed by fire, and the rest fled in terror.
Thus Belgarath and his companions escaped from Mallorea and passed again through
the marches of the north, bearing the Orb of Aldur once more into the Kingdoms
of the West.
Now the Gods, knowing all that had passed, held council, and Aldur advised them,
"If we raise war again upon our brother Torak, our strife will destroy the
world. Thus we must absent ourselves from the world so that our brother may not
find us. No longer in flesh, but in spirit only may we remain to guide and
protect our people. For the world's sake it must be so. In the day that we war
again, the world will be unmade."
The Gods wept that they must depart. But Chaldan, Bull-God of the Arends, asked,
"In our absence, shall not Torak have dominion?"
"Not so," Aldur replied. "So long as the Orb remains with the line of Riva
Iron-grip, Torak shall not prevail."
So it was that the Gods departed, and only Torak remained. But the knowledge
that the Orb in the hand of Riva denied him dominion cankered his soul.
Then Belgarath spoke with Cherek and his sons. "Here we must part, to guard the
Orb and to prepare against the coming of Torak. Let each turn aside as I have
instructed and make preparations."
"We will, Belgarath," vowed Cherek Bear-shoulders. "From this day, Aloria is no
more, but the Alorns will deny dominion to Torak as long as one Alorn remains."
Belgarath raised his face. "Hear me, Torak One-eye," he cried. "The living Orb
is secure against thee, and thou shalt not prevail against it. In the day that
thou comest against us, I shall raise war against thee. I will maintain watch
upon thee by day and by night and will abide against thy coming, even to the end
of days."
In the wastelands of Mallorea, Kal-Torak heard the voice of Belgarath and smote
about him in fury, for he knew that the living Orb was forever beyond his reach.
Then Cherek embraced his sons and turned away, to see them no more. Dras went
north and dwelt in the lands drained by River Mrin. He built a city at Boktor
and called his lands Drasnia. And he and his descendants stood athwart the
northern marches and denied them to the enemy. Algar went south with his people
and found horses on the broad plains drained by Aldur River. The horses they
tamed and learned to ride for the first time in the history of man, mounted
warriors appeared. Their country they called Algaria, and they became nomads,
following their herds. Cherek returned sadly to Val Alorn and renamed his
kingdom Cherek, for now he was alone and without sons. Grimly he built tall
ships of war to patrol the seas and deny them to the enemy.
Upon the bearer of the Orb, however, fell the burden of the longest journey.
Taking his people, Riva went to the west coast of Sendaria. There he built
ships, and he and his people crossed to the Isle of the Winds. They burned their
ships and built a fortress and a walled city around it. The city they called
Riva and the fortress the Hall of the Rivan King. Then Belar, God of the Alorns,
caused two iron stars to fall from the sky. Riva took up the stars and forged a
blade from one and a hilt from the other, setting the Orb upon it as a
pommel-stone. So large was the sword that none but Riva could wield it. In the
wasteland of Mallorea, Kal-Torak felt in his soul the forging of the sword and
he tasted fear for the first time.
The sword was set against the black rock that stood at the back of Riva's
throne, with the Orb at the highest point, and the sword joined to the rock so
that none but Riva could remove it. The Orb burned with cold fire when Riva sat
upon the throne. And when he took down his sword and raised it, it became a
great tongue of cold fire.
The greatest wonder of all was the marking of Riva's heir. In each generation,
one child in the line of Riva bore upon the palm of his right hand the mark of
the Orb. The child so marked was taken to the throne chamber, and his hand was
placed upon the Orb, so that it might know him. With each infant touch, the Orb
waxed in brilliance, and the bond between the living Orb and the line of Riva
became stronger with each joining.
After Belgarath had parted from his companions, he hastened to the Vale of
Aldur. But there he found that Poledra, his wife, had borne twin daughters and
then had died. In sorrow he named the elder Polgara. Her hair was dark as the
raven's wing. In the fashion of sorcerers, he stretched forth his hand to lay it
upon her brow, and a single lock at her forehead turned frost-white at his
touch. Then he was troubled, for the white lock was the mark of the sorcerers,
and Polgara was the first female child to be so marked.
His second daughter, fair-skinned and golden-haired, was unmarked. He called her
Beldaran, and he and her dark-haired sister loved her beyond all else and
contended with each other for her affection.
Now when Polgara and Beldaran had reached their sixteenth year, the Spirit of
Aldur came to Belgarath in a dream, saying, "My beloved disciple, I would join
thy house with the house of the guardian of the Orb. Choose, therefore, which of
thy daughters thou wilt give to the Rivan King to be his wife and the mother of
his line, for in that line lies the hope of the world, against which the dark
power of Torak may not prevail."
In the deep silence of his soul, Belgarath was tempted to choose Polgara. But,
knowing the burden which lay upon the Rivan King, he sent Beldaran instead, and
wept when she was gone. Polgara wept also, long and bitterly, knowing that her
sister must fade and die. In time, however, they comforted each other and came
at last to know each other.
They joined their powers to keep watch over Torak. And some men say that they
abide still, keeping their vigil through all the uncounted centuries.
Part One
SENDARIA
Chapter One
THE FIRST THING the boy Garion remebered was the kitchen at Faldor's farm. For
all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those
peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling
seriousness that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and,
above all, home. No matter how high Garion rose in life, he never forgot that
all his memories began in that kitchen.
The kitchen at Faldor's farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens and
kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavernlike arched fireplaces.
There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into loaves and
chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick, crisp rocking
movements of long, curved knives. When Garion was very small, he played under
those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes out from under the
feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around them. And sometimes in the late
afternoon when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner and stare into one of the
flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back from the hundred polished pots
and knives and long-handled spoons that hung from pegs along the whitewashed
walls and, all bemused, he would drift off into sleep in perfect peace and
harmony with all the world around him.
The center of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Pol. She
seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that
plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or garnished
a smoking ham fresh from the oven was always hers. Though there were several
others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever
went out of it that had not been touched at least once by Aunt Pol. She knew by
smell, taste, or some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned
them all by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice
pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and power
beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she always knew
precisely where Garion was. In the very midst of crimping a pie crust or
decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed chicken she could,
without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back out from under the feet of
others with heel or ankle.
As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Garion would watch until she
seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his
sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would
laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to
watching for his next chance to run away again.
He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pol was quite the most
important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller than
the other women on Faldor's farm-very nearly as tall as a man-and her face was
always serious-even sternexcept with him, of course. Her hair was long and very
dark-almost black-all but one lock just above her left brow which was white as
new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own
in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white
lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand. Then he would
sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, watching over him.
Faldor's farm lay very nearly in the center of Sendaria, a misty kingdom
bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of
Cherek. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Faldor's
farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed
complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon a
central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery were
the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who
tilled and planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Faldor
himself lived in quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall
where his workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during harvest
time-to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pol's kitchen.
All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Faldor was a good
master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer jaw.
Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly to those who worked for
him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in health and well-being than
extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many ways he was more
like a father than a master to the sixty-odd people who lived on his
freeholding. He ate with them-which was unusual, since many farmers in the
district sought to hold themselves aloof from their workers-and his presence at
the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence
on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Faldor
was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence the blessing
of the Gods before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with
some decorum into the dining hall before each meal and sat in the semblance at
least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt
Pol and her helpers had placed before them.
Because of Faldor's good heart-and the magic of Aunt Pol's deft fingers-the farm
was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work for
twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evenings were spent in the tavern in the
nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute descriptions of the near-miraculous
meals served regularly in Faldor's dining hall. Less fortunate men who worked at
other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at
descriptions of one of Aunt Pol's roasted geese, and the fame of Faldor's farm
spread wide throughout the district.
The most important man on the farm, aside from Faldor, was Durnik the smith. As
Garion grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Pol's watchful
eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The glowing iron that came from
Durnik's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Durnik was an
ordinary-looking man with plain brown hair and a plain face, ruddy from the heat
of his forge. He was neither tall nor short, nor was he thin or stout. He was
sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously
strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both
were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also wore
tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that part of
Sendaria. At first Durnik's only words to Garion were warnings to keep his
fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time,
however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.
"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad for the
iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is
needful."
"Why is that?" Garion would ask.
Durnik would shrug. "It just is."
"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as he put a
last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he
was repairing.
"But that piece goes underneath," Garion said. "No one will ever see it."
"But I know it's there," Durnik said, still smoothing the metal. "If it isn't
done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see this wagon go
by-and I'll see the wagon every day."
And so it went. Without even intending to, Durnik instructed the small boy in
those solid Sendarian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and
practicality which formed the backbone of the society.
At first Aunt Pol worried about Garion's attraction to the smithy with its
obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she
realized that Durnik was almost as watchful of Garion's safety as she was
herself and she became less concerned.
"If the boy becomes pestersome, Goodman Durnik, send him away," she told the
smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy
to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him closer to the kitchen."
"He's no bother, Mistress Pol," Durnik said, smiling. "He's a sensible boy and
knows enough to keep out of the way."
"You're too good-natured, friend Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "The boy is full of
questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out."
"That's the way of boys," Durnik said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into the
small clay ring he'd placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the kettle. "I
was questionsome myself when I was a boy. My father and old Barl, the smith who
taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I'd repay them poorly
if I didn't have the same patience with Garion."
Garion, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation. He
knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him from
the smithy. As Aunt Pol walked back across the hard-packed dirt of the yard
toward her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that Durnik
watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple idea, and
the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone.
"Aunt Pol," he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a
rough cloth.
"Yes?" she said, turning her attention to his neck.
"Why don't you marry Durnik?"
She stopped washing. "What?" she asked.
"I think it would be an awfully good idea."
"Oh, do you?" Her voice had a slight edge to it, and Garion knew he was on
dangerous ground.
"He likes you," he said defensively.
"And I suppose you've already discussed this with him?"
"No," he said. "I thought I'd talk to you about it first."
"At least that was a good idea."
"I can tell him about it tomorrow morning, if you'd like."
His head was turned around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Pol, Garion felt, found
his ears far too convenient.
"Don't you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Durnik or anyone
else," she said, her dark eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen
there before.
"It was only a thought," he said quickly.
"A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups." She was still holding
his ear.
"Anything you say," he agreed hastily.
Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness, he
approached the problem obliquely.
"Aunt Pol?"
"Yes?"
"Since you don't want to marry Durnik, whom do you want to marry?"
"Garion," she said.
"Yes?"
"Close your mouth and go to sleep."
"I think I've got a right to know," he said in an injured tone.
"Garion!"
"All right. I'm going to sleep, but I don't think you're being very fair about
all this."
She drew in a deep breath. "Very well," she said. "I'm not thinking of getting
married. I have never thought of getting married and I seriously doubt that I'll
ever think of getting married. I have far too many important things to attend to
for any of that."
"Don't worry, Aunt Pol," he said, wanting to put her mind at ease. "When I grow
up, I'll marry you."
She laughed then, a deep, rich laugh, and reached out to touch his face in the
darkness. "Oh no, my Garion," she said. "There's another wife in store for you."
"Who?" he demanded.
"You'll find out," she said mysteriously. "Now go to sleep."
"Aunt Pol?"
"Yes?"
"Where's my mother?" It was a question he had been meaning to ask for quite some
time.
There was a long pause, then Aunt Pol sighed.
"She died," she said quietly.
Garion felt a sudden wrenching surge of grief, an unbearable anguish. He began
to cry.
And then she was beside his bed. She knelt on the floor and put her arms around
him. Finally, a long time later, after she had carried him to her own bed and
held him close until his grief had run its course, Garion asked brokenly, "What
was she like? My mother?"
"She was fair-haired," Aunt Pol said, "and very strong and very beautiful. Her
voice was gentle, and she was very happy."
"Did she love me?"
"More than you could imagine."
And then he cried again, but his crying was quieter now, more regretful than
anguished.
Aunt Pol held him closely until he cried himself to sleep.
There were other children on Faldor's farm, as was only natural in a community
of sixty or so. The older ones on the farm all worked, but there were three
other children of about Garion's age on the freeholding. These three became his
playmates and his friends.
The oldest boy was named Rundorig. He was a year or two older than Garion and
quite a bit taller. Ordinarily, since he was the eldest of the children,
Rundorig would have been their leader; but because he was an Arend, his sense
was a bit limited and he cheerfully deferred to the younger ones. The kingdom of
Sendaria, unlike other kingdoms, was inhabited by a broad variety of racial
stocks. Chereks, Algars, Drasnians, Arends, and even a substantial number of
Tolnedrans had merged to form the elemental Sendar. Arends, of course, were very
brave, but were also notoriously thick-wined.
Garion's second playmate was Doroon, a small, quick boy whose background was so
mixed that he could only be called a Sendar. The most notable thing about Doroon
was the fact that he was always running; he never walked if he could run. Like
his feet, his mind seemed to tumble over itself, and his tongue as well. He
talked continually and very fast and he was always excited.
The undisputed leader of the little foursome was the girl Zubrette, a
golden-haired charmer who invented their games, made up stories to tell them,
and set them to stealing apples and plums from Faldor's orchard for her. She
ruled them as a little queen, playing one against the other and inciting them
into fights. She was quite heartless, and each of the three boys at times hated
her even while remaining helpless thralls to her tiniest whim.
In the winter they slid on wide boards down the snowy hillside behind the
farmhouse and returned home, wet and snow-covered, with chapped hands and
glowing cheeks as evening's purple shadows crept across the snow. Or, after
Durnik the smith had proclaimed the ice safe, they would slide endlessly across
the frozen pond that lay glittering frostily in a little dale just to the east
of the farm buildings along the road to Upper Gralt. And, if the weather was too
cold or on toward spring when rains and warm winds had made the snow slushy and
the pond unsafe, they would gather in the hay barn and leap by the hour from the
loft into the soft hay beneath, filling their hair with chaff and their noses
with dust that smelled of summer.
In the spring they caught polliwogs along the marshy edges of the pond and
climbed trees to stare in wonder at the tiny blue eggs the birds had laid in
twiggy nests in the high branches.
It was Doroon, naturally, who fell from a tree and broke his arm one fine spring
morning when Zubrette urged him into the highest branches of a tree near the
edge of the pond. Since Rundorig stood helplessly gaping at his injured friend
and Zubrette had run away almost before he hit the ground, it fell to Garion to
make certain necessary decisions. Gravely he considered the situation for a few
moments, his young face seriously intent beneath his shock of sandy hair. The
arm was obviously broken, and Doroon, pale and frightened, bit his lip to keep
from crying.
A movement caught Garion's eye, and he glanced up quickly. A man in a dark cloak
sat astride a large black horse not far away, watching intently. When their eyes
met, Garion felt a momentary chill, and he knew that he had seen the man
before-that indeed that dark figure had hovered on the edge of his vision for as
long as he could remember, never speaking, but always watching. There was in
that silent scrutiny a kind of cold animosity curiously mingled with something
that was almost, but not quite, fear. Then Doroon whimpered, and Garion turned
back.
Carefully he bound the injured arm across the front of Doroon's body with his
rope belt, and then he and Rundorig helped the injured boy to his feet.
"At least he could have helped us," Garion said resentfully.
"Who?" Rundorig said, looking around.
Garion turned to point at the dark-cloaked man, but the rider was gone.
"I didn't see anyone," Rundorig said.
"It hurts," Doroon said.
"Don't worry," Garion said. "Aunt Pol will fix it."
And so she did. When the three appeared at the door of her kitchen, she took in
the situation with a single glance.
"Bring him over here," she told them, her voice not even excited. She set the
pale and violently trembling boy on a stool near one of the ovens and mixed a
tea of several herbs taken from earthenware jars on a high shelf in the back of
one of her pantries.
"Drink this," she instructed Doroon, handing him a steaming mug.
"Will it make my arm well?" Doroon asked, suspiciously eyeing the evil-smelling
brew.
"Just drink it," she ordered, laying out some splints and linen strips.
"Ick! It tastes awful," Doroon said, making a face.
"It's supposed to," she told him. "Drink it all."
"I don't think I want any more," he said.
"Very well," she said. She pushed back the splints and took down a long, very
sharp knife from a hook on the wall.
"What are you going to do with that?" he demanded shakily.
"Since you don't want to take the medicine," she said blandly, "I guess it'll
have to come off."
"Off?" Doroon squeaked, his eyes bulging.
"Probably about right there," she said, thoughtfully touching his arm at the
elbow with the point of the knife.
Tears coming to his eyes, Doroon gulped down the rest of the liquid and a few
minutes later he was nodding, almost drowsing on his stool. He screamed once,
though, when Aunt Pol set the broken bone, but after the arm had been wrapped
and splinted, he drowsed again. Aunt Pol spoke briefly with the boy's frightened
mother and then had Durnik carry him up to bed.
"You wouldn't really have cut off his arm," Garion said.
Aunt Pol looked at him, her expression unchanging. "Oh?" she said, and he was no
longer sure. "I think I'd like to have a word with Mistress Zubrette now," she
said then.
"She ran away when Doroon fell out of the tree," Garion said.
"Find her."
"She's hiding," Garion protested. "She always hides when something goes wrong. I
wouldn't know where to look for her."
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "I didn't ask you if you knew where to look. I told you
to find her and bring her to me."
"What if she won't come?" Garion hedged.
"Garion!" There was a note of awful finality in Aunt Pol's tone, and Garion
fled.
"I didn't have anything to do with it," Zubrette lied as soon as Garion led her
to Aunt Pol in the kitchen.
"You," Aunt Pol said, pointing at a stool, "sit!"
Zubrette sank onto the stool, her mouth open and her eyes wide.
"You," Aunt Pol said to Garion, pointing at the kitchen door, "outl"
Garion left hurriedly.
Ten minutes later a sobbing little girl stumbled out of the kitchen. Aunt Pol
stood in the doorway looking after her with eyes as hard as ice.
"Did you thrash her?" Garion asked hopefully.
Aunt Pol withered him with a glance. "Of course not," she said. "You don't
thrash girls."
"I would have," Garion said, disappointed. "What did you do to her?"
"Don't you have anything to do?" Aunt Pol asked.
"No," Garion said, "not really."
That, of course, was a mistake.
"Good," Aunt Pol said, finding one of his ears. "It's time you started to earn
your way. You'll find some dirty pots in the scullery. I'd like to have them
scrubbed."
"I don't know why you're angry with me," Garion objected, squirming. "It wasn't
my fault that Doroon went up that tree."
"The scullery, Garion," she said. "Now."
The rest of that spring and the early part of the summer were quiet. Doroon, of
course, could not play until his arm mended, and Zubrette had been so shaken by
whatever it was that Aunt Pol had said to her that she avoided the two other
boys. Garion was left with only Rundorig to play with, and Rundorig was not
bright enough to be much fun. Because there was really nothing else to do, the
boys often went into the fields to watch the hands work and listen to their
talk.
As it happened, during that particular summer the men on Faldor's farm were
talking about the Battle of Vo Mimbre, the most cataclysmic event in the history
of the west. Garion and Rundorig listened, enthralled, as the men unfolded the
story of how the hordes of Kal Torak had quite suddenly struck into the west
some five hundred years before.
It had all begun in 4865, as men reckoned time in that part of the world, when
vast multitudes of Murgos and Nadraks and Thulls had struck down across the
mountains of the eastern escarpment into Drasnia, and behind them in endless
waves had come the uncountable numbers of the Malloreans.
After Drasnia had been brutally crushed, the Angaraks had turned southward onto
the vast grasslands of Algaria and had laid siege to that enormous fortress
called the Algarian Stronghold. The siege had lasted for eight years until
finally, in disgust, Kal Torak had abandoned it. It was not until he turned his
army westward into Ulgoland that the other kingdoms became aware that the
Angarak invasion was directed not only against the Alorns but against all of the
west. In the summer of 4875 Kal Torak had come down upon the Arendish plain
before the city of Vo Mimbre, and it was there that the combined armies of the
west awaited him.
The Sendars who participated in the battle were a part of the force under the
leadership of Brand, the Rivan Warder. That force, consisting of Rivans, Sendars
and Asturian Arends, assaulted the Angarak rear after the left had been engaged
by Algars, Drasnians and Ulgos; the right by Tolnedrans and Chereks; and the
front by the legendary charge of the Mimbrate Arends. For hours the battle had
raged until, in the center of the field, Brand had met in a single combat with
Kal Torak himself. Upon that duel had hinged the outcome of the battle.
Although twenty generations had passed since that titanic encounter, it was
still as fresh in the memory of the Sendarian farmers who worked on Faldor's
farm as if it had happened only yesterday. Each blow was described, and each
feint and parry. At the final moment, when it seemed that he must inevitably be
overthrown, Brand had removed the covering from his shield, and Kal Torak, taken
aback by some momentary confusion, had lowered his guard and had been instantly
struck down.
For Rundorig, the description of the battle was enough to set his Arendish blood
seething. Garion, however, found that certain questions had been left unanswered
by the stories.
"Why was Brand's shield covered?" he asked Cralto, one of the older hands.
Cralto shrugged. "It just was," he said. "Everyone I've ever talked with about
it agrees on that."
"Was it a magic shield?" Garion persisted.
"It may have been," Cralto said, "but I've never heard anyone say so. All I know
is that when Brand uncovered his shield, Kal Torak dropped his own shield, and
Brand stabbed his sword into Kal Torak's head through the eye, or so I am told."
Garion shook his head stubbornly. "I don't understand," he said. "How would
something like that have made Kal Torak afraid?"
"I can't say," Cralto told him. "I've never heard anyone explain it."
Despite his dissatisfaction with the story, Garion quite quickly agreed to
Rundorig's rather simple plan to re-enact the duel. After a day or so of
posturing and banging at each other with sticks to simulate swords, Garion
decided that they needed some equipment to make the game more enjoyable. Two
kettles and two large pot lids mysteriously disappeared from Aunt Pol's kitchen;
and Garion and Rundorig, now with helmets and shields, repaired to a quiet place
to do war upon each other.
It was all going quite splendidly until Rundorig, who was older, taller and
stronger, struck Garion a resounding whack on the head with his wooden sword.
The rim of the kettle cut into Garion's eyebrow, and the blood began to flow.
There was a sudden ringing in Garion's ears, and a kind of boiling exaltation
surged up in his veins as he rose to his feet from the ground.
He never knew afterward quite what happened. He had only sketchy memories of
shouting defiance at Kal Torak in words which sprang to his lips and which even
he did not understand. Rundorig's familiar and somewhat foolish face was no
longer the face before him but rather was replaced by something hideously maimed
and ugly. In a fury Garion struck at that face again and again with fire
seething in his brain.
And then it was over. Poor Rundorig lay at his feet, beaten senseless by the
enraged attack. Garion was horrified at what he had done, but at the same time
there was the fiery taste of victory in his mouth.
Later, in the kitchen, where all injuries on the farm were routinely taken, Aunt
Pol tended their wounds with only minimal comments about them. Rundorig seemed
not to be seriously hurt, though his face had begun to swell and turn purple in
several places and he had difficulty focusing his eyes at first. A few cold
cloths on his head and one of Aunt Pol's potions quickly restored him.
The cut on Garion's brow, however, required a bit more attention. She had Durnik
hold the boy down and then she took needle and thread and sewed up the cut as
calmly as she would have repaired a rip in a sleeve, all the while ignoring the
howls from her patient. All in all, she seemed much more concerned about the
dented kettles and battered pot lids than about the war wounds of the two boys.
When it was over, Garion had a headache and was taken up to bed.
"At least I beat Kal Torak," he told Aunt Pol somewhat drowsily.
She looked at him sharply.
"Where did you hear about Torak?" she demanded.
"It's Kal Torak, Aunt Pol," Garion explained patiently.
"Answer me."
"The farmers were telling stories-old Cralto and the others-about Brand and Vo
Mimbre and Kal Torak and all the rest. That's what Rundorig and I were playing.
I was Brand and he was Kal Torak. I didn't get to uncover my shield, though.
Rundorig hit me on the head before we got that far."
"I want you to listen to me, Garion," Aunt Pol said, "and I want you to listen
carefully. You are never to speak the name of Torak again."
"It's Kal Torak, Aunt Pol," Garion explained again, "not just Torak."
Then she hit him - which she had never done before. The slap across his mouth
surprised him more than it hurt, for she did not hit very hard.
"You will never speak the name of Torak again. Neverl" she said. "This is
important, Garion. Your safety depends on it. I want your promise."
"You don't have to get so angry about it," he said in an injured tone.
"Promise."
"All right, I promise. It was only a game."
"A very foolish one," Aunt Pol said. "You might have killed Rundorig."
"What about me?" Garion protested.
"You were never in any danger," she told him. "Now go to sleep."
And as he dozed fitfully, his head light from his injury and the strange, bitter
drink his aunt had given him, he seemed to hear her deep, rich voice saying,
"Garion, my Garion, you're too young yet." And later, rising from deep sleep as
a fish rises toward the silvery surface of the water, he seemed to hear her
call, "Father, I need you." Then he plunged again into a troubled sleep, haunted
by a dark figure of a man on a black horse who watched his every movement with a
cold animosity and something that hovered very near the edge of fear; and behind
that dark figure he had always known to be there but had never overtly
acknowledged, even to Aunt Pol, the maimed and ugly face he had briefly seen or
imagined in the fight with Rundorig loomed darkly, like the hideous fruit of an
unspeakable evil tree.
Chapter Two
NOT LONG AFTER in the endless noon of Garion's boyhood, the storyteller appeared
once again at the gate of Faldor's farm. The storyteller, who seemed not to have
a proper name as other men do, was a thoroughly disreputable oid man. The knees
of his hose were patched and his mismatched shoes were out at the toes. His
long-sleeved woolen tunic was belted about the waist with a piece of rope, and
his hood, a curious garment not normally worn in that part of Sendaria and one
which Garion thought quite fine with its loosely fitting yoke covering
shoulders, back and chest, was spotted and soiled with spilled food and drink.
Only his full cloak seemed relatively new. The old storyteller's white hair was
cropped quite close, as was his beard. His face was strong, with a kind of
angularity to it, and his features provided no clue to his background. He did
not resemble Arend nor Cherek, Algar nor Drasnian, Rivan nor Tolnedran, but
seemed rather to derive from some racial stock long since forgotten. His eyes
were a deep and merry blue, forever young and forever full of mischief
The storyteller appeared from time to time at Faldor's farm and was always
welcome. He was in truth a rootless vagabond who made his way in the world by
telling stories. His stories were not always new, but there was in his telling
of them a special kind of magic. His voice could roll like thunder or hush down
into a zepherlike whisper. He could imitate the voices of a dozen men at once;
whistle so like a bird that the birds themselves would come to him to hear what
he had to say; and when he imitated the howl of a wolf, the sound could raise
the hair on the backs of his listeners' necks and strike a chill into their
hearts like the depths of a Drasnian winter. He could make the sound of rain and
of wind and even, most miraculously, the sound of snow falling. His stories were
filled with sounds that made them come alive, and through the sounds and the
words with which he wove the tales, sight and smell and the very feel of strange
times and places seemed also to come to life for his spellbound listeners.
All of this wonder he gave freely in exchange for a few meals, a few tankards of
ale, and a warm spot in the hay barn in which to sleep. He roamed about the
world seemingly as free of possessions as the birds.
Between the storyteller and Aunt Pol there seemed to be a sort of hidden
recognition. She had always viewed his coming with a kind of wry acceptance,
knowing, it seemed, that the ultimate treasures of her kitchen were not safe so
long as he lurked in the vicinity. Loaves and cakes had a way of disappearing
when he was around, and his quick knife, always ready, could neatly divest the
most carefully prepared goose of a pair of drumsticks and a generous slab of
breast meat with three swift slices when her back was turned. She called him
"Old Wolf," and his appearance at the gate of Faldor's farm marked the
resumption of a contest which had obviously been going on for years. He
flattered her outrageously even as he stole from her. Offered cookies or dark
brown bread, he would politely refuse and then steal half a plateful before the
platter had moved out of his reach. Her beer pantry and wine cellar might as
well have been delivered into his hands immediately upon his appearance at the
gate. He seemed to delight in pilferage, and if she watched him with steely eye,
he found quite easily a dozen confederates willing to sack her kitchen in
exchange for a single story.
Lamentably, among his most able pupils was the boy Garion. Often, driven to
distraction by the necessity of watching at once an old thief and a fledgling
one, Aunt Pol would arm herself with a broom and drive them both from her
kitchen with hard words and resounding blows. And the old storyteller, laughing,
would flee with the boy to some secluded place where they would feast on the
fruits of their pilferage and the old man, tasting frequently from a flagon of
stolen wine or beer, would regale his student with stories out of the dim past.
The best stories, of course, were saved for the dining hall when, after the
evening meal was over and the plates had been pushed back, the old man would
rise from his place and carry his listeners off into a world of magical
enchantment.
"Tell us of the beginnings, my old friend," Faldor, always pious, said one
evening, "and of the Gods."
"Of the beginnings and the Gods," the old man mused. "A worthy subject, Faldor,
but a dry and dusty one."
"I've noticed that you find all subjects dry and dusty, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol
said, going to the barrel and drawing off a tankard of foamy beer for him.
He accepted the tankard with a stately bow. "It's one of the hazards of my
profession, Mistress Pol," he explained. He drank deeply, then set the tankard
aside. He lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked directly, or so
it seemed, at Garion. And then he did a strange thing which he had never before
done when telling stories in Faldor's dining hall. He drew his cloak about him
and rose to his full height.
"Behold," he said, his voice rich and sonorous, "at the beginning of days made
the Gods the world and the seas and the dry land also. And cast they the stars
across the night sky and did set the sun and his wife, the moon, in the heavens
to give light unto the world.
"And the Gods caused the earth to bring forth the beasts, and the waters to bud
with 6sh, and the skies to flower with birds.
"And they made men also, and divided men into Peoples.
"Now the Gods were seven in number and were all equal, and their names were
Belar, and Chaldan, and Nedra, and Issa, and Mara, and Aldur, and Torak."
Garion knew the story, of course; everyone in that part of Sendaria was familiar
with it, since the story was of Alorn origin and the lands on three sides of
Sendaria were Alorn kingdoms. Though the tale was familiar, however, he had
never before heard it told in such a way. His mind soared as in his imagination
the Gods themselves strode the world in those dim, misty days when the world was
first made, and a chill came over him at each mention of the forbidden name of
Torak.
He listened intently as the storyteller described how each God selected a
people---for Belar the Alorns, for Issa the Nyissans, for Chaldan the Arends,
for Nedra the Tolnedrans, for Mara the Marags which are no more, and for Torak
the Angaraks. And he heard how the God Aldur dwelt apart and considered the
stars in his solitude, and how some very few men he accepted as pupils and
disciples.
Garion glanced at the others who were listening. Their faces were rapt with
attention. Durnik's eyes were wide, and old Cralto's hands were clasped on the
table in front of him. Faldor's face was pale, and tears stood in his eyes. Aunt
Pol stood at the rear of the room. Though it was not cold, she too had drawn her
mantle about her and stood very straight, her eyes intent.
"And it came to pass," the storyteller continued, "that the God Aldur caused to
be made a jewel in the shape of a globe, and behold, in the jewel was captured
the light of certain stars that did glitter in the northern sky. And great was
the enchantment upon the jewel which men called the Orb of Aldur, for with the
Orb could Aldur see that which had been, that which was, and that which was yet
to be."
Garion realized he was holding his breath, for he was now completely caught up
in the story. He listened in wonder as Torak stole the Orb and the other Gods
made war on him. Torak used the Orb to sunder the earth and let in the sea to
drown the land, until the Orb struck back against misuse by melting the left
side of his face and destroying his left hand and eye.
The old man paused and drained his tankard. Aunt Pol, with her mantle still
close about her, brought him another, her movements somehow stately and her eyes
burning.
"I've never heard the story told so," Durnik said softly.
"It's The Book of Alorn. * It's only told in the presence of kings," Cralto
said, just as softly. "I knew a man once who had heard it at the king's court at
Sendar, and he remembered some of it. I've never heard it all before, though."
The story continued, recounting how Belgarath the Sorcerer led Cherek and his
three sons to regain the Orb two thousand years later, and how the western lands
were settled and guarded against the hosts of Torak. The Gods removed from the
world, leaving Riva to safeguard the Orb in his fortress on the Isle of the
Winds. There he forged a great sword and set the Orb in its hilt. While the Orb
remained there and the line of Riva sat on the throne, Torak could not prevail.
Then Belgarath sent his favorite daughter to Riva to be a mother to kings, while
his other daughter remained with him and learned his art, for the mark of the
sorcerers was upon her.
The old storyteller's voice was now very soft as his ancient tale drew to its
close. "And between them," he said, "did Belgarath and his daughter, the
Sorceress Polgara, set enchantments to keep watch against the coming of Torak.
And some men say they shall abide against his coming even though it be until the
very end of days, for it is phophesied that one day shall maimed Torak come
against the kingdoms of the west to reclaim the Orb which he so dearly
purchased, and battle shall be joined between Torak and the fruit of the line of
Riva, and in that battle shall be decided the fate of the world."
And then the old man fell silent and let his mantle drop from about his
shoulders, signifying that his story was at an end.
There was a long silence in the hall, broken only by a few faint cracks from the
dying fire and the endless song of frogs and crickets in the summer night
outside.
Finally Faldor cleared his throat and rose, his bench scraping loudly on the
wooden floor. "You have done us much honor tonight, my old
* Several shorter, less formal versions of the story existed, similar to the
adaptation used here in the Prologue. Even The Book of Alorn was said to be an
abridgment of a much older document, friend," he said, his voice thick with
emotion. "This is an event we will remember all our lives. You have told us a
kingly story, not usually wasted on ordinary people."
The old man grinned then, his blue eyes twinkling. "I haven't consorted with
many kings of late, Faldor." He laughed. "They all seem to be too busy to listen
to the old tales, and a story must be told from time to time if it is not to be
lost-besides, who knows these days where a king might be hiding?"
They all laughed at that and began to push back their benches, for it was
growing late and time for those who must be up with the first light of the sun
to seek their beds.
"Will you carry a lantern for me to the place where I sleep, boy?" the
storyteller asked Garion.
"Gladly," Garion said, jumping up and running into the kitchen. He fetched down
a square glass lantern, lighted the candle inside it from one of the banked
kitchen fires, and went back into the dining hall.
Faldor was speaking with the storyteller. As he turned away, Garion saw a
strange look pass between the old man and Aunt Pol, who still stood at the back
of the hall.
"Are we ready then, boy?" the old man asked as Garion came up to him.
"Whenever you are," Garion replied, and the two of them turned and left the
hall.
"Why is the story unfinished?" Garion asked, bursting with curiosity. "Why did
you stop before we found out what happened when Torak met the Rivan King?"
"That's another story," the old man explained.
"Will you tell it to me sometime?" Garion pressed.
The old man laughed. "Torak and the Rivan King have not as yet met," he said,
"so I can't very well tell it, can I?-at least not until after their meeting."
"It's only a story," Garion objected. "Isn't it?"
"Is it?" The old man removed a flagon of wine from under his tunic and took a
long drink. "Who is to say what is only a story and what is truth disguised as a
story?"
"It's only a story," Garion said stubbornly, suddenly feeling very hardheaded
and practical like any good Sendar."It can't really be true. Why, Belgarath the
Sorcerer would be - would be I don't know how old - and people don't live that
long."
"Seven thousand years," the old man said.
"What?"
"Belgarath the Sorcerer is seven thousand years old - perhaps a bit older."
"That's impossible," Garion said.
"Is it? How old are you?"
"Nine-next Erastide."
"And in nine years you've learned everything that's both possible and
impossible? You're a remarkable boy, Garion."
Garion flushed. "Well," he said, somehow not quite so sure of himself, "the
oldest man I ever heard of is old Weldrik over on Mildrin's farm. Durnik says
he's over ninety and that he's the oldest man in the district."
"And it's a very big district, of course," the old man said solemnly.
"How old are you?" Garion asked, not wanting to give up.
"Old enough, boy," the old man said.
"It's still only a story," Garion insisted.
"Many good and solid men would say so," the old man told him, looking up at the
stars, "good men who will live out their lives believing only in what they can
see and touch. But there's a world beyond what we can see and touch, and that
world lives by its own laws. What may be impossible in this very ordinary world
is very possible there, and sometimes the boundaries between the two worlds
disappear, and then who can say what is possible and impossible?"
"I think I'd rather live in the ordinary world," Garion said. "The other one
sounds too complicated."
"We don't always have that choice, Garion," the storyteller told him. "Don't be
too surprised if that other world someday chooses you to do something that must
be done - some great and noble thing."
"Me?" Garion said incredulously.
"Stranger things have happened. Go to bed, boy. I think I'll look at the stars
for a while. The stars and I are very old friends."
"The stars?" Garion asked, looking up involuntarily. "You're a very strange old
man - if you don't mind my saying so."
"Indeed," the storyteller agreed. "Quite the strangest you'll likely meet."
"I like you all the same," Garion said quickly, not wanting to give offense.
"That's a comfort, boy," the old man said. "Now go to bed. Your Aunt Pol will be
worried about you."
Later, as he slept, Garion's dreams were troubled. The dark figure of maimed
Torak loomed in the shadows, and monstrous things pursued him across twisted
landscapes where the possible and the impossible merged and joined as that other
world reached out to claim him.
Chapter Three
SOME FEW MORNINGS later, when Aunt Pol had begun to scowl at his continued
lurking in her kitchen, the old man made excuse of some errand to the nearby
village of Upper Gralt.
"Good," Aunt Pol said, somewhat ungraciously. "At least my pantries will be safe
while you're gone."
He bowed mockingly, his eyes twinkling. "Do you need anything, Mistress Pol?" he
asked. "Some trifling thing I might purchase for you - as long as I'm going
anyway?"
Aunt Pol thought a moment. "Some of my spice pots are a bit low," she said, "and
there's a Tolnedran spice merchant in Fennel Lane just south of the Town Tavern.
I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding the tavern."
"The trip is likely to be dry," the old man admitted pleasantly. "And lonely,
too. Ten leagues with no one to talk to is a long way."
"Talk to the birds," Aunt Pol suggested bluntly.
"Birds listen well enough," the old man said, "but their speech is repetitious
and quickly grows tiresome. Why don't I take the boy along for company?"
Garion held his breath.
"He's picking up enough bad habits on his own," Aunt Pol said tartly. "I'd
prefer his not having expert instruction."
"Why, Mistress Pol," the old man objected, stealing a cruller almost absently,
"you do me an injustice. Besides, a change will do the boy good - broaden his
horizons, you might say."
"His horizons are quite broad enough, thank you," she said.
Garion's heart sank.
"Still," she continued, "at least I can count on him not to forget my spices
altogether or to become so fuddled with ale that he confuses peppercorns with
cloves or cinnamon with nutmeg. Very well, take the boy along; but mind, I don't
want you taking him into any low or disreputable places."
"Mistress Pol!" the old man said, feigning shock. "Would I frequent such
places?"
"I know you too well, Old Wolf," she said dryly. "You take to vice and
corruption as naturally as a duck takes to a pond. If I hear that you've taken
the boy into any unsavory place, you and I will have words."
"Then I'll have to make sure that you don't hear of anything like that, won't
I?"
Aunt Pol gave him a hard look. "I'll see which spices I need," she said.
"And I'll borrow a horse and cart from Faldor," the old man said, stealing
another cruller.
In a surprisingly short time, Garion and the old man were bouncing along the
rutted road to Upper Gralt behind a fast-trotting horse. It was a bright summer
morning, and there were a few dandelion-puff' clouds in the sky and deep blue
shadows under the hedgerows. After a few hours, however, the sun became hot, and
the jolting ride became tiresome.
"Are we almost there?" Garion asked for the third time.
"Not for some time yet," the old man said. "Ten leagues is a goodly distance."
"I was there once before," Garion told him, trying to sound casual. "Of course I
was only a child at the time, so I don't remember too much about it. It seemed
to be quite a fine place."
The old man shrugged. "It's a village," he said, "much like any other." He
seemed a bit preoccupied.
Garion, hoping to nudge the old man into a story to make the miles go faster,
began asking questions.
"Why is it that you have no name - if I'm not being impolite in asking?"
"I have many names," the old man said, scratching his white beard. "Almost as
many names as I have years."
"I've only got one," Garion said.
"So far."
"What?"
"You only have one name so far," the old man explained. "In time you may get
another - or even several. Some people collect names as they go along through
their lives. Sometimes names wear out just like clothes."
"Aunt Pol calls you Old Wolf," Garion said.
"I know," the old man said. "Your Aunt Pol and I have known each other for a
very long time."
"Why does she call you that?"
"Who can say why a woman such as your Aunt does anything?"
"May I call you Mister Wolf?" Garion asked. Names were quite important to
Garion, and the fact that the old storyteller did not seem to have one had
always bothered him. That namelessness had made the old man seem somehow
incomplete, unfinished.
The old man looked at him soberly for a moment, and then he burst out laughing.
"Mister Wolf indeed. How very appropriate. I think I like that name better than
any I've had in years."
"May I then?" Garion asked. "Call you Mister Wolf, I mean?"
"I think I'd like that, Garion. I think I'd like that very much."
"Now would you please tell me a story, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked.
The time and distance went by much faster then as Mister Wolf wove for Garion
tales of glorious adventure and dark treachery taken from those gloomy, unending
centuries of the Arendish civil wars.
"Why are the Arends like that?" Garion asked after a particularly grim tale.
"The Arends are very noble," Wolf said, lounging back in the seat of the cart
with the reins held negligently in one hand. "Nobility is a trait that's not
always trustworthy, since it sometimes causes men to do things for obscure
reasons."
"Rundorig is an Arend," Garion said. "He sometimes seems to bewell, not too
quick of thought, if you know what I mean."
"It's the effect of all that nobility," Wolf said. "Arends spend so much time
concentrating on being noble that they don't have time to think of other
things."
They came over the crest of a long hill, and there in the next valley lay the
village of Upper Gralt. To Garion the tiny cluster of gray stone houses with
slate roofs seemed disappointingly small. Two roads, white with thick dust,
intersected there, and there were a few narrow, winding streets besides. The
houses were square and solid, but seemed almost like toys set down in the valley
below. The horizon beyond was ragged with the mountains of eastern Sendaria,
and, though it was summer, the tops of most of the mountains were still wrapped
in snow.
Their tired horse plodded down the hill toward the village, his hooves stirring
little clouds of dust with each step, and soon they were clattering along the
cobblestoned streets toward the center of the village. The villagers, of course,
were all too important to pay any attention to an old man and a small boy in a
farm cart. The women wore gowns and high-pointed hats, and the men wore doublets
and soft velvet caps. Their expressions seemed haughty, and they looked with
obvious disdain at the few farmers in town who respectfully stood aside to let
them pass.
"They're very fine, aren't they?" Garion observed.
"They seem to think so," Wolf said, his expression faintly amused. "I think it's
time that we found something to eat, don't you?"
Though he had not realized it until the old man mentioned it, Garion was
suddenly ravenous. "Where will we go?" he asked. "They all seem so splendid.
Would any of them let strangers sit at their tables?"
Wolf laughed and shook a jingling purse at his waist. "We should have no trouble
making acquaintances," he said. "There are places where one may buy food."
Buy food? Garion had never heard of such a thing before. Anyone who appeared at
Faldor's gate at mealtime was invited to the table as a matter of course. The
world of the villagers was obviously very different from the world of Faldor's
farm.
"But I don't have any money," he objected.
"I've enough for us both," Wolf assured him, stopping their horse before a
large, low building with a sign bearing a picture of a cluster of grapes hanging
just above its door. There were words on the sign, but of course Garion could
not read them.
"What do the words say, Mister Wolf?" he asked.
"They say that food and drink may be bought inside," Wolf told him, getting down
from the cart.
"It must be a fine thing to be able to read," Garion said wistfully. The old man
looked at him, seemingly surprised. "You can't read, boy?" he asked
incredulously.
"I've never found anyone to teach me," Garion said. "Faldor reads, I think, but
no one else at the farm knows how."
"Nonsense," Wolf snorted. "I'll speak to your Aunt about it. She's been
neglecting her responsibility. She should have taught you years ago."
"Can Aunt Pol read?" Garion asked, stunned.
"Of course she can," Wolf said, leading the way into the tavern. "She says she
finds little advantage in it, but she and I had that particular argument out,
many years ago." The old man seemed quite upset by Garion's lack of education.
Garion, however, was far too interested in the smoky interior of the tavern to
pay much attention. The room was large and dark with a low, beamed ceiling and a
stone floor strewn with rushes. Though it was not cold, a fire burned in a stone
pit in the center of the room, and the smoke rose errantly toward a chimney set
above it on four square stone pillars. Tallow candles guttered in clay dishes on
several of the long, stained tables, and there was a reek of wine and stale beer
in the air.
"What have you to eat?" Wolf demanded of a sour, unshaven man wearing a
grease-spotted apron.
"We've a bit of a joint left," the man said, pointing at a spit resting to one
side of the fire pit. "Roasted only day before yesterday. And meat porridge
fresh yesterday morning, and bread no more than a week old."
"Very well," Wolf said, sitting down. "And I'll have a pot of your best ale and
milk for the boy."
"Milk?" Garion protested.
"Milk," Wolf said firmly.
"You have money?" the sour-looking man demanded.
Wolf jingled his purse, and the sour man looked suddenly less sour.
"Why is that man over there sleeping?" Garion asked, pointing at a snoring
villager sitting with his head down on one of the tables.
"Drunk," Wolf said, scarcely glancing at the snoring man.
"Shouldn't someone take care of him?"
"He'd rather not be taken care of."
"Do you know him?"
"I know of him," Wolf said, "and many others like him. I've occasionally been in
that condition myself."
"Why?"
"It seemed appropriate at the time."
The roast was dry and overdone, the meat porridge was thin and watery, and the
bread was stale, but Garion was too hungry to notice. He carefully cleaned his
plate as he had been taught, then sat as Mister Wolf lingered over a second pot
of ale.
"Quite splendid," he said, more to be saying something than out of any real
conviction. All in all he found that Upper Gralt did not live up to his
expectations.
"Adequate." Wolf shrugged. "Village taverns are much the same the world over.
I've seldom seen one I'd hurry to revisit. Shall we go?" He laid down a few
coins, which the sour-looking man snatched up quickly, and led Garion back out
into the afternoon sunlight.
"Let's find your Aunt's spice merchant," he said, "and then see to a night's
lodging-and a stable for our horse." They set off down the street, leaving horse
and cart beside the tavern.
The house of the Tolnedran spice merchant was a tall, narrow building in the
next street. Two swarthy, thick-bodied men in short tunics lounged in the street
at his front door near a fierce-looking black horse wearing a curious armored
saddle. The two men stared with dull-eyed disinterest at passers-by in the lane.
Mister Wolf stopped when he caught sight of them.
"Is something wrong?" Garion asked.
"Thulls," Wolf said quietly, looking hard at the two men.
"What?"
"Those two are Thulls," the old man said. "They usually work as porters for the
Murgos."
"What are Murgos?"
"The people of Cthol Murgos," Wolf said shortly. "Southern Angaraks."
"The ones we beat at the battle of Vo Mimbre?" Garion asked. "Why would they be
here?"
"The Murgos have taken up commerce," Wolf said, frowning. "I hadn't expected to
see one of them in so remote a village. We may as well go in. The Thulls have
seen us, and it might look strange if we turned now and went back. Stay close to
me, boy, and don't say anything."
They walked past the two heavyset men and entered the spice merchant's shop.
The Tolnedran was a thin, baldheaded man wearing a brown, belted gown that
reached to the floor. He was nervously weighing several packets of
pungent-smelling powder which lay on the counter before him.
"Good day to you," he said to Wolf. "Please have patience. I'll be with you
shortly." He spoke with a slight lisp that Garion found peculiar.
"No hurry," Wolf said in a wheezy, cracking voice. Garion looked at him sharply
and was astonished to see that his friend was stooped and that his head was
nodding foolishly.
"See to their needs," the other man in the shop said shortly. He was a dark,
burly man wearing a chain-mail shirt and a short sword belted to his waist. His
cheekbones were high, and there were several savagelooking scars on his face.
His eyes looked curiously angular, and his voice was harsh and thickly accented.
"No hurry," Wolf said in his wheezy cackle.
"My business.here will take some time," the Murgo said coldly, "and 1 prefer not
to be rushed. Tell the merchant here what you need, old man."
"My thanks, then," Wolf cackled. "I have a list somewhere about me." He began to
fumble foolishly in his pockets. "My master drew it up. I do hope you can read
it, friend merchant, for I cannot." He finally found the list and presented it
to the Tolnedran.
The merchant glanced at the list. "This will only take a moment," he told the
Murgo.
The Murgo nodded and stood staring stonily at Wolf and Garion. His eyes narrowed
slightly, and his expression changed. "You're a seemly appearing boy," he said
to Garion. "What's your name?"
Until that moment, in his entire life, Garion had been an honest and truthful
boy, but Wolf's manner had opened before his eyes an entire world of deception
and subterfuge. Somewhere in the back of his mind he seemed to hear a warning
voice, a dry, calm voice advising him that the situation was dangerous and that
he should take steps to protect himself. He hesitated only an instant before
telling his first deliberate lie. He allowed his mouth to drop open and his face
to assume an expression of vacantheaded stupidity. "Rundorig, your Honor," he
mumbled.
"An Arendish name," the Murgo said, his eyes narrowing even more. "You don't
look like an Arend."
Garion gaped at him.
"Are you an Arend, Rundorig?" the Murgo pressed.
Garion frowned as if struggling with a thought while his mind raced. The dry
voice suggested several alternatives.
"My father was," he said finally, "but my mother is a Sendar, and people say I
favor her."
"You say was, " the Murgo said quickly. "Is your father dead, then?" His scarred
face was intent.
Garion nodded foolishly. "A tree he was cutting fell on him," he lied. "It was a
long time ago."
The Murgo suddenly seemed to lose interest. "Here's a copper penny for you,
boy," he said, indifferently tossing a small coin on the floor at Garion's feet.
"It has the likeness of the God Torak stamped on it. Perhaps it will bring you
luck-or at least more wit."
Wolf stooped quickly and retrieved the coin, but the coin he handed to Garion
was a common Sendarian penny.
"Thank the good man, Rundorig," he wheezed.
"My thanks, your Honor," Garion said, concealing the penny tightly in his fist.
The Murgo shrugged and looked away.
Wolf paid the Tolnedran merchant for the spices, and he and Garion left the
shop.
"You played a dangerous game, boy," Wolf said once they were out of earshot of
the two lounging Thulls.
"You seemed not to want him to know who we were," Garion explained. "I wasn't
sure why, but I thought I ought to do the same. Was what I did wrong?"
"You're very quick," Wolf said approvingly. "I think we managed to deceive the
Murgo."
"Why did you change the coin?" Garion asked.
"Sometimes Angarak coins are not what they seem," Wolf said. "It's better for
you not to have any of them. Let's fetch our horse and cart. It's a long way
back to Faldor's farm."
"I thought we were going to take lodgings for the night."
"That's changed now. Come along, boy. It's time for us to leave."
The horse was very tired, and he moved slowly up the long hill out of Upper
Gralt as the sun went down ahead of them.
"Why wouldn't you let me keep the Angarak penny, Mister Wolf?" Garion persisted.
The subject still puzzled him.
"There are many things in this world that seem to be one thing and are in fact
another," Wolf said somewhat grimly. "I don't trust Angaraks, and I particularly
don't trust Murgos. It would be just as well, I think, if you never had in your
possession anything that bears the likeness of Torak."
"But the war between the west and the Angaraks has been over for five hundred
years now," Garion objected."All men say so."
"Not all men," Wolf said. "Now take that robe out of the back of the cart and
cover up. Your Aunt would never forgive me if you should take a chill."
"I will if you think I should," Garion said, "but I'm not a bit cold and not at
all sleepy. I'll keep you company as we go."
"That'll be a comfort, boy," Wolf said.
"Mister Wolf," Garion said after some time, "did you know my mother and father?"
"Yes," Wolf said quietly.
"My father's dead too, isn't he?"
"I'm afraid so."
Garion sighed deeply. "I thought so," he said. "I wish I'd known them. Aunt Pol
says I was only a baby when-" He couldn't bring himself to say it. "I've tried
to remember my mother, but I can't."
"You were very small," Wolf said.
"What were they like?" Garion asked.
Wolf scratched at his beard. "Ordinary," he said. "So ordinary you wouldn't look
twice at either one of them."
Garion was offended by that. "Aunt Pol says my mother was very beautiful," he
objected.
"She was."
"Then how can you say she was ordinary?"
"She wasn't prominent or important," Wolf said. "Neither was your father. Anyone
who saw them thought that they were just simple village people - a young man
with a young wife and their baby - that's all anyone ever saw. That's all anyone
was ever supposed to see."
"I don't understand."
"It's very complicated."
"What was my father like?"
"Medium size," Wolf said. "Dark hair. A very serious young man. I liked him."
"Did he love my mother?"
"More than anything."
"And me?"
"Of course."
"What kind of place did they live in?"
"It was a small place," Wolf said, "a little village near the mountains, a long
way from any main roads. They had a cottage at the end of the street. It was a
small, solid little house. Your father built it himself - he was a stonecutter.
I used to stop by there once in a while when I was in the neighborhood." The old
man's voice droned on, describing the village and the house and the two who
lived there. Garion listened, not even realizing it when he fell asleep.
It must have been very late, almost on toward dawn. In a half drowse, the boy
felt himself lifted from the cart and carried up a flight of stairs. The old man
was surprisingly strong. Aunt Pol was there - he knew that without even opening
his eyes. There was a particular scent about her that he could have found in a
dark room.
"Just cover him up," Mister Wolf said softly to Aunt Pol. "Best not to wake him
just now."
"What happened?" Aunt Pol asked, her voice as soft as the old man's.
"There was a Murgo in town-at your spice merchant's. He asked questions and he
tried to give the boy an Angarak penny."
"In Upper Gralt? Are you certain he was only a Murgo?"
"It's impossible to tell. Not even I can distinguish between Murgo and Grolim
with any certainty."
"What happened to the coin?"
"I was quick enough to get it. I gave the boy a Sendarian penny instead. If our
Murgo was a Grolim, we'll let him follow me. I'm sure I can give him several
months of entertainment."
"You'll be leaving, then?" Aunt Pol's voice seemed somehow sad.
"It's time," Wolf said. "Right now the boy is safe enough here, and I must be
abroad. There are things afoot I must see to. When Murgos begin to appear in
remote places, I begin to worry. We have a great responsibility and a great care
placed upon us, and we mustn't allow ourselves to become careless."
"Will you be gone long?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Some years, I expect. There are many things I must look into and many people
I'll have to see."
"I'll miss you," Aunt Pol said softly.
He laughed. "Sentimentality, Pol?" he said dryly. "That's hardly in character."
"You know what I mean. I'm not suited for this task you and the others have
given me. What do I know about the raising of small boys?"
"You're doing well," Wolf said. "Keep the boy close, and don't let his nature
drive you into hysterics. Be careful; he lies like a champion."
"Garion?" Her voice was shocked.
"He lied to the Murgo so well that even I was impressed."
"Garion?"
"He's also started asking questions about his parents," Wolf said.
"How much have you told him?"
"Very little. Only that they're dead."
"Let's leave it at that for now. There's no point in telling him things he isn't
old enough to cope with yet."
Their voices went on, but Garion drifted off into sleep again, and he was almost
sure that it was all a dream.
But the next morning when he awoke, Mister Wolf was gone.
Chapter Four
THE SEASONS TURNED, as seasons will. Summer ripened into autumn; the blaze of
autumn died into winter; winter grudgingly relented to the urgency of spring;
and spring bloomed into summer again.
With the turning of the seasons the years turned, and Garion imperceptibly grew
older.
As he grew, the other children grew as well - all except poor Doroon, who seemed
doomed to be short and skinny all his life. Rundorig sprouted like a young tree
and was soon almost as big as any man on the farm. Zubrette, of course, did not
grow so tall, but she developed in other ways which the boys began to find
interesting.
In the early autumn just before Garion's fourteenth birthday, he came very close
to ending his career. In response to some primal urge all children have - given
a pond and a handy supply of logs - they had built a raft that summer. The raft
was neither very large nor was it particularly well-built. It had a tendency to
sink on one end if the weight aboard it were improperly distributed and an
alarming habit of coming apart at unexpected moments.
Quite naturally it was Garion who was aboard the raft - showing off - on that
fine autumn day when the raft quite suddenly decided once and for all to revert
to its original state. The bindings all came undone, and the logs began to go
their separate ways.
Realizing his danger only at the last moment, Garion made a desperate effort to
pole for shore, but his haste only made the disintegration of his craft more
rapid. In the end he found himself standing on a single log, his arms
windmilling wildly in a futile effort to retain his balance. His eyes,
desperately searching for some aid, swept the marshy shore. Some distance up the
slope behind his playmates he saw the familiar figure of the man on the black
horse. The man wore a dark robe, and his burning eyes watched the boy's plight.
Then the spiteful log rolled under Garion's feet, and he toppled and fell with a
resounding splash.
Garion's education, unfortunately, had not included instruction in the art of
swimming; and while the water was not really very deep, it was deep enough.
The bottom of the pond was very unpleasant, a kind of dark, weedy ooze inhabited
by frogs, turtles and a singularly unsavory-looking eel that slithered away
snakelike when Garion plunged like a sinking rock into the weeds. Garion
struggled, gulped water and launched himself with his legs toward the surface
again. Like a broaching whale, he rose from the depths, gasped a couple of
quick, sputtering breaths and heard the screams of his playmates. The dark
figure on the slope had not moved, and for a single instant every detail of that
bright afternoon was etched on Garion's mind. He even observed that, although
the rider was in the open under the full glare of the autumn sun, neither man
nor horse cast any shadow. Even as his mind grappled with that impossibility, he
sank once more to the murky bottom.
It occurred to him as he struggled, drowning, amongst the weeds that if he could
launch himself up in the vicinity of the log, he might catch hold of it and so
remain afloat. He waved off a startled-looking frog and plunged upward again. He
came up, unfortunately, directly under the log. The blow on the top of his head
filled his eyes with light and his ears with a roaring sound, and he sank, no
longer struggling, back toward the weeds which seemed to reach up for him.
And then Durnik was there. Garion felt himself lifted roughly by the hair toward
the surface and then towed by that same convenient handle toward shore behind
Durnik's powerfully churning strokes. The smith pulled the semiconscious boy out
onto the bank, turned him over and stepped on him several times to force the
water out of his lungs.
Garion's ribs creaked.
"Enough, Durnik," he gasped finally. He sat up, and the blood from the splendid
cut on top of his head immediately ran into his eyes. He wiped the blood clear
and looked around for the dark, shadowless rider, but the figure had vanished.
He tried to get up, but the world suddenly spun around him, and he fainted.
When he awoke, he was in his own bed with his head wrapped in bandages.
Aunt Pol stood beside his bed, her eyes blazing. "You stupid boy!" she cried.
"What were you doing in that pond?"
"Rafting," Garion said, trying to make it sound quite ordinary.
"Rafting?" she said. "Rafting? Who gave you permission?"
"Well-" he said uncertainly. "We just "
"You just what?"
He looked at her helplessly.
And then with a low cry she took him in her arms and crushed him to her almost
suffocatingly.
Briefly Garion considered telling her about the strange, shadowless figure that
had watched his struggles in the pond, but the dry voice in his mind that
sometimes spoke to him told him that this was not the time for that. He seemed
to know somehow that the business between him and the man on the black horse was
something very private, and that the time would inevitably come when they would
face each other in some kind of contest of will or deed. To speak of it now to
Aunt Pol would involve her in the matter, and he did not want that. He was not
sure exactly why, but he did know that the dark figure was an enemy, and though
that thought was a bit frightening, it was also exciting. There was no question
that Aunt Pol could deal with this stranger, but if she did, Garion knew that he
would lose something very personal and for some reason very important. And so he
said nothing.
"It really wasn't anything all that dangerous, Aunt Pol," he said instead,
rather lamely. "I was starting to get the idea of how to swim. I'd have been all
right if I hadn't hit my head on that log."
"But of course you did hit your head," she pointed out.
"Well, yes, but it wasn't that serious. I'd have been all right in a minute or
two."
"Under the circumstances I'm not sure you had a minute or two," she said
bluntly.
"Well-" he faltered, and then decided to let it drop.
That marked the end of Garion's freedom. Aunt Pol confined him to the scullery.
He grew to know every dent and scratch on every pot in the kitchen intimately.
He once estimated gloomily that he washed each one twenty-one times a week. In a
seeming orgy of messiness, Aunt Pol suddenly could not even boil water without
dirtying at least three or four pans, and Garion had to scrub every one. He
hated it and began to think quite seriously of running away.
As autumn progressed and the weather began to deteriorate, the other children
were also more or less confined to the compound as well, and it wasn't so bad.
Rundorig, of course, was seldom with them anymore since his man's size had made
him - even more than Garion - subject to more and more frequent labor.
When he could, Garion slipped away to be with Zubrette and Doroon, but they no
longer found much entertainment in leaping into the hay or in the endless games
of tag in the stables and barns. They had reached an age and size where adults
rather quickly noticed such idleness and found tasks to occupy them. Most often
they would sit in some out of the way place and simply talk - which is to say
that Garion and Zubrette would sit and listen to the endless flow of Doroon's
chatter. That small, quick boy, as unable to be quiet as he was to sit still,
could seemingly talk for hours about a half dozen raindrops, and his words
tumbled out breathlessly as he fidgeted.
"What's that mark on your hand, Garion?" Zubrette asked one rainy day,
interrupting Doroon's bubbling voice.
Garion looked at the perfectly round, white patch on the palm of his right hand.
"I've noticed it too," Doroon said, quickly changing subjects in midsentence.
"But Garion grew up in the kitchen, didn't you, Garion? It's probably a place
where he burned himself when he was little - you know, reached out before anyone
could stop him and put his hand on something hot. I'll bet his Aunt Pol really
got angry about that, because she can get angrier faster than anybody else I've
ever seen, and she can really-"
"It's always been there," Garion said, tracing the mark on his palm with his
left forefinger. He had never really looked closely at it before. It covered the
entire palm of his hand and had in certain light a faint silvery sheen.
"Maybe it's a birthmark," Zubrette suggested.
"I'll bet that's it," Doroon said quickly. "I saw a man once that had a big
purple one on the side of his face-one of those wagoneers that comes by to pick
up the turnip crop in the fall - anyway, the mark was all over the side of his
face, and I thought it was a big bruise at first and thought that he must have
been in an awful fight - those wagoneers fight all the time - but then I saw
that it wasn't really a bruise but - like Zubrette just said - it was a
birthmark. I wonder what causes things like that."
That evening, after he'd gotten ready for bed, he asked his Aunt about it.
"What's this mark, Aunt Pol?" he asked, holding his hand up, palm out.
She looked up from where she was brushing her long, dark hair.
"It's nothing to worry about," she told him.
"I wasn't worried about it," he said. "I just wondered what it was. Zubrette and
Doroon think it's a birthmark. Is that what it is?"
"Something like that," she said.
"Did either of my parents have the same kind of mark?"
"Your father did. It's been in the family for a long time."
A sudden strange thought occurred to Garion. Without knowing why, he reached out
with the hand and touched the white lock at his Aunt's brow. "Is it like that
white place in your hair?" he asked.
He felt a sudden tingle in his hand, and it seemed somehow that a window opened
in his mind. At first there was only the sense of uncountable years moving by
like a vast sea of ponderously rolling clouds, and then, sharper than any knife,
a feeling of endlessly repeated loss, of sorrow. Then, more recent, there was
his own face, and behind it more faces, old, young, regal or quite ordinary, and
behind them all, no longer foolish as it sometimes seemed, the face of Mister
Wolf. But more than anything there was a knowledge of an unearthly, inhuman
power, the certainty of an unconquerable will.
Aunt Pol moved her head away almost absently.
"Don't do that, Garion," she said, and the window in his mind shut.
"What was it?" he asked, burning with curiosity and wanting to open the window
again.
"A simple trick," she said.
"Show me how."
"Not yet, my Garion," she said, taking his face between her hands. "Not yet.
You're not ready yet. Now go to bed."
"You'll be here?" he asked, a little frightened now.
"I'll always be here," she said, tucking him in. And then she went back to
brushing her long, thick hair, humming a strange song as she did in a deep,
melodious voice; to that sound he fell asleep.
After that not even Garion himself saw the mark on his own palm very often.
There suddenly seemed to be all kinds of dirty jobs for him to do which kept not
only his hands, but the rest of him as well, very dirty.
The most important holiday in Sendaria - and indeed in the rest of the kingdoms
of the west - was Erastide. It commemorated that day, eons before, when the
seven Gods joined hands to create the world with a single word. The festival of
Erastide took place in midwinter, and, because there was little to do on a farm
like Faldor's at that season, it had by custom become a splendid two-week
celebration with feasts and gifts and decorations in the dining hall and little
pageants honoring the Gods. These last, of course, were a reflection of Faldor's
piety. Faldor, though he was a good, simple man, had no illusions about how
widely his sentiments were shared by others on the farm. He thought, however,
that some outward show of devotional activity was in keeping with the season;
and, because he was such a good master, the people on his farm chose to humor
him.
It was also at this season, unfortunately, that Faldor's married daughter,
Anhelda, and her husband, Eilbrig, made their customary annual visit to remain
on speaking terms with her father. Anhelda had no intention of endangering her
inheritance rights by seeming inattention. Her visits, however, were a trial to
Faldor, who looked upon his daughter's somewhat overdressed and supercilious
husband, a minor functionary in a commercial house in the capital city of
Sendar, with scarcely concealed contempt.
Their arrival, however, marked the beginning of the Erastide festival at
Faldor's farm; so, while no one cared for them personally, their appearance was
always greeted with a certain enthusiasm.
The weather that year had been particularly foul, even for Sendaria. The rains
had settled in early and were soon followed by a period of soggy snow - not the
crisp, bright powder which came later in the winter, but a damp slush, always
half melting. For Garion, whose duties in the kitchen now prevented him from
joining with his former playmates in their traditional preholiday orgy of
anticipatory excitement, the approaching holiday seemed somehow flat and stale.
He yearned back to the good old days and often sighed with regret and moped
about the kitchen like a sandy-haired cloud of doom.
Even the traditional decorations in the dining hall, where Erastide festivities
always took place, seemed decidedly tacky to him that year. The fir boughs
festooning the ceiling beams were somehow not as green, and the polished apples
carefully tied to the boughs were smaller and not as red. He sighed some more
and reveled in his sullen moping.
Aunt Pol, however, was not impressed, and her attitude was firmly unsympathetic.
She routinely checked his brow with her hand for signs of fever and then dosed
him with the foulest-tasting tonic she could concoct. Garion was careful after
that to mope in private and to sigh less audibly. That dry, secret part of his
mind informed him matter-of factly that he was being ridiculous, but Garion
chose not to listen. The voice in his mind was much older and wiser than he, but
it seemed determined to take all the fun out of life.
On the morning of Erastide, a Murgo and five Thulls appeared with a wagon
outside the gate and asked to see Faldor. Garion, who had long since learned
that no one pays attention to a boy and that many interesting things may be
learned by placing himself in a position to casually overhear conversations,
busied himself with some small, unimportant chore near the gate.
The Murgo, his face scarred much like the face of the one in Upper Gralt, sat
importantly on the wagon seat, his chain-mail shirt clinking each time he moved.
He wore a black, hooded robe, and his sword was much in evidence. His eyes moved
constantly, taking in everything. The Thulls, in muddy felt boots and heavy
cloaks, lounged disinterestedly against the wagon, seemingly indifferent to the
raw wind whipping across the snowy fields.
Faldor, in his finest doublet - it was after all Erastide - came across the
yard, closely followed by Anhelda and Eilbrig.
"Good morrow, friend," Faldor said to the Murgo. "Joyous Erastide to you."
The Murgo grunted. "You are, I take it, the farmer Faldor?" he asked in his
heavily accented voice.
"I am," Faldor replied.
"I understand you have a goodly number of hams on hand-well cured."
"The pigs did well this year," Faldor answered modestly.
"I will buy them," the Murgo announced, jingling his purse.
Faldor bowed. "First thing tomorrow morning," he said.
The Murgo stared.
"This is a pious household," Faldor explained. "We do not offend the Gods by
breaking the sanctity of Erastide."
"Father," Anhelda snapped, "don't be foolish. This noble merchant has come a
long way to do business."
"Not on Erastide," Faldor said stubbornly, his long face firm.
"In the city of Sendar," Eilbrig said in his rather high-pitched, nasal voice,
"we do not let such sentimentality interfere with business."
"This is not the city of Sendar," Faldor said flatly. "This is Faldor's farm,
and on Faldor's farm we do no work and conduct no business on Erastide."
"Father," Anhelda protested, "the noble merchant has gold. Gold, father, goldl "
"I will hear no more of it," Faldor announced. He turned to the Murgo. "You and
your servants are welcome to join us in our celebration, friend," he said. "We
can provide quarters for you and the promise of the finest dinner in all of
Sendaria and the opportunity to honor the Gods on this special day. No man is
made poorer by attending to his religious obligations."
"We do not observe this holiday in Cthol Murgos," the scar-faced man said
coldly. "As the noble lady says, I have come a long way to do business and have
not much time to tarry. I'm sure there are other farmers in the district with
the merchandise I require."
"Father!" Anhelda wailed.
"I know my neighbors," Faldor said quietly. "Your luck today will be small, I
fear. The observance of this day is a firm tradition in this area."
The Murgo thought for a moment. "It may be as you say," he said finally. "I will
accept your invitation, provided that we can do business as early as possible
tomorrow."
Faldor bowed. "I'll place myself at your service at first light tomorrow if you
so desire."
"Done, then," the Murgo said, climbing down from his wagon.
That afternoon the feast was laid in the dining hall. The kitchen helpers and a
half dozen others who had been pressed into service for the special day scurried
from kitchen to hall bearing smoking roasts, steaming hams and sizzling geese
all under the lash of Aunt Pol's tongue. Garion observed sourly as he struggled
with an enormous baron of beef that Faldor's prohibition of work on Erastide
stopped at the kitchen door.
In time, all was ready. The tables were loaded, the fires in the fireplaces
burned brightly, dozens of candles filled the hall with golden light, and
torches flared in their rings on the stone pillars. Faldor's people, all in
their best clothes, filed into the hall, their mouths watering in anticipation.
When all were seated, Faldor rose from his bench at the head of the center
table. "Dear friends," he said, lifting his tankard, "I dedicate this feast to
the Gods."
"The Gods," the people responded in unison, rising respectfully. Faldor drank
briefly, and they all followed suit. "Hear me, O Gods," he prayed. "Most humbly
we thank you for the bounty of this fair world which you made on this day, and
we dedicate ourselves to your service for yet another year." He looked for a
moment as if he were going to say more, but then sat down instead. Faldor always
labored for many hours over special prayers for occasions such as this, but the
agony of speaking in public invariably erased the words so carefully prepared
from his mind. His prayers, therefore, were always very sincere and very short.
"Eat, dear friends," he instructed. "Do not let the food grow cold."
And so they ate. Anhelda and Eilbrig, who joined them all at this one meal only
at Faldor's insistence, devoted their conversational efforts to the Murgo, since
he was the only one in the room who was worthy of their attention.
"I have long thought of visiting Cthol Murgos," Eilbrig stated rather pompously.
"Don't you agree, friend merchant, that greater contact between east and west is
the way to overcome those mutual suspicions which have so marred our
relationships in the past?"
"We Murgos prefer to keep to ourselves," the scar-faced man said shortly.
"But you are here, friend," Eilbrig pointed out. "Doesn't that suggest that
greater contact might prove beneficial?"
"I am here as a duty," the Murgo said. "I don't visit here out of preference."
He looked around the room. "Are these then all of your people?" he asked Faldor.
"Every soul is here," Faldor told him.
"I was led to believe there was an old man here - with white hair and beard."
"Not here, friend," Faldor said. "I myself am the eldest here, and as you can
see, my hair is far from white."
"One of my countrymen met such a one some years ago," the Murgo said. "He was
accompanied by an Arendish boy - Rundorig, I believe his name was."
Garion, seated at the next table, kept his face to his plate and listened so
hard that he thought his ears must be growing.
"We have a boy named Rundorig here," Faldor said. "That tall lad at the end of
the far table over there." He pointed.
"No," the Murgo said, looking hard at Rundorig. "That isn't the boy who was
described to me."
"It's not an uncommon name among the Arends," Faldor said. "Quite probably your
friend met a pair from another farm."
"That must be it," the Murgo said, seeming to dismiss the affair. "This ham is
excellent," he said, pointing at his plate with the point of the dagger with
which he ate. "Are the ones in your smokehouse of similar quality?"
"Oh, no, friend merchant!" Faldor laughed. "You won't so easily trick me into
talking business on this day."
The Murgo smiled briefly, the expression appearing strange on his scarred face.
"One can always try," he said. "I would, however, compliment your cook."
"A compliment for you, Mistress Pol," Faldor said, raising his voice slightly.
"Our friend from Cthol Murgos finds your cooking much to his liking."
"I thank him for his compliment," Aunt Pol said, somewhat coldly.
The Murgo looked at her, and his eyes widened slightly as if in recognition.
"A noble meal, great lady," he said, bowing slightly in her direction. "Your
kitchen is a place of magic."
"No," she said, her face suddenly very haughty, "not magic. Cooking is an art
which anyone with patience may learn. Magic is quite something else."
"But magic is also an art, great lady," the Murgo said.
"There are many who think so," Aunt Pol said, "but true magic comes from within
and is not the result of nimble fingers which trick the eye."
The Murgo stared at her, his face hard, and she returned his gaze with steely
eyes. To Garion, sitting nearby, it seemed as if something had passed between
them that had nothing to do with the words they spoke - a kind of challenge
seemed to hang in the air. And then the Murgo looked away almost as if he feared
to take up that challenge.
When the meal was over, it was time for the rather simple pageant which
traditionally marked Erastide. Seven of the older farmhands who had slipped away
earlier appeared in the doorway wearing the long, hooded robes and carefully
carved and painted masks which represented the faces of the Gods. The costumes
were old and showed the wrinkles which were the result of having been packed
away in Faldor's attic for the past year. With a slow step, the robed and masked
figures paced into the hall and lined up at the foot of the table where Faldor
sat. Then each in turn spoke a short piece which identified the God he
represented.
"I am Aldur," Cralto's voice came from behind the first mask, "the God who
dwells alone, and I command this world to be."
"I am Belar," came another familiar voice from behind the second mask, "Bear-God
of the Alorns, and I command this world to be." And so it went down the line,
Chaldan, Issa, Nedra, Mara and then finally the last figure, which, unlike the
others, was robed in black and whose mask was made of steel instead of painted
wood.
"I am Torak," Durnik's voice came hollowly from behind the mask, "Dragon-God of
the Angaraks, and I command this world to be."
A movement caught Garion's eye, and he looked quickly. The Murgo had covered his
face with his hands in a strange, almost ceremonial gesture. Beyond him, at the
far table, the five Thulls were ashen-faced and trembling.
The seven figures at the foot of Faldor's table joined their hands. "We are the
Gods," they said in unison, "and we command this world to be."
"Hearken unto the words of the Gods," Faldor declaimed. "Welcome are the Gods in
the house of Faldor."
"The blessing of the Gods be upon the house of Faldor," the seven responded,
"and upon all this company." And then they turned and, as slowly as they had
come, they paced from the hall.
And then came the gifts. There was much excitement at this, for the gifts were
all from Faldor, and the good farmer struggled long each year to provide the
most suitable gift for each of his people. New tunics and hose and gowns and
shoes were much in evidence, but Garion this year was nearly overwhelmed when he
opened a smallish, cloth - wrapped bundle and found a neat, well-sheathed
dagger.
"He's nearly a man," Faldor explained to Aunt Pol, "and a man always has need of
a good knife."
Garion, of course, immediately tested the edge of his gift and quite promptly
managed to cut his finger.
"It was inevitable, I suppose," Aunt Pol said, but whether she was speaking of
the cut or the gift itself or the fact of Garion's growing up was not entirely
clear.
The Murgo bought his hams the next morning, and he and the five Thulls departed.
A few days later Anhelda and Eilbrig packed up and left on their return journey
to the city of Sendar, and Faldor's farm returned to normal.
The winter plodded on. The snows came and went, and spring returned, as it
always does. The only thing which made that spring any different from any other
was the arrival of Brill, the new hand. One of the younger farmers had married
and rented a small nearby croft and had left, laden down with practical gifts
and good advice from Faldor to begin his life as a married man. Brill was hired
to replace him.
Garion found Brill to be a definitely unattractive addition to the farm. The
man's tunic and hose were patched and stained, his black hair and scraggly beard
were unkempt, and one of his eyes looked off in a different direction from its
fellow. He was a sour, solitary man, and he was none too clean. He seemed to
carry with him an acrid reek of stale sweat that hung in his vicinity like a
miasma. After a few attempts at conversation, Garion gave up and avoided him.
The boy, however, had other things to occupy his mind during that spring and
summer. Though he had until then considered her to be more an inconvenience than
a genuine playmate, quite suddenly he began to notice Zubrette. He had always
known that she was pretty, but until that particular season that fact had been
unimportant, and he had much preferred the company of Rundorig and Doroon. Now
matters had changed. He noticed that the two other boys had also begun to pay
more attention to her as well, and for the first time he began to feel the
stirrings of jealousy.
Zubrette, of course, flirted outrageously with all three of them, and positively
glowed when they glared at each other in her presence. Rundorig's duties in the
fields kept him away most of the time, but Doroon was a serious worry to Garion.
He became quite nervous and frequently found excuses to go about the compound to
make certain that Doroon and Zubrette were not alone together.
His own campaign was charmingly simple - he resorted to bribery. Zubrette, like
all little girls, was fond of sweets, and Garion had access to the entire
kitchen. In a short period of time they had worked out an arrangement. Garion
would steal sweets from the kitchen for his sunnyhaired playmate, and in return
she would let him kiss her. Things might perhaps have gone further if Aunt Pol
had not caught them in the midst of such an exchange one bright summer afternoon
in the seclusion of the hay barn.
"That's quite enough of that," she announced firmly from the doorway.
Garion jumped guiltily away from Zubrette.
"I've got something in my eye," Zubrette lied quickly. "Garion was trying to get
it out for me."
Garion stood blushing furiously.
"Really?" Aunt Pol said. "How interesting. Come with me, Garion."
"I-" he started.
"Now, Garion."
And that was the end of that. Garion's time thereafter was totally occupied in
the kitchen, and Aunt Pol's eyes seemed to be on him every moment. He mooned
about a great deal and worried desperately about Doroon, who now appeared
hatefully smug, but Aunt Pol remained watchful, and Garion remained in the
kitchen.
Chapter Five
IN MIDAUTUMN that year, when the leaves had turned and the wind had showered
them down from the trees like red and gold snow, when evenings were chill and
the smoke from the chimneys at Faldor's farm rose straight and blue toward the
first cold stars in a purpling sky, Wolf returned. He came up the road one gusty
afternoon under a lowering autumn sky with the new-fallen leaves tumbling about
him and his great, dark cloak whipping in the wind.
Garion, who had been dumping kitchen slops to the pigs, saw his approach and ran
to meet him. The old man seemed travel-stained and tired, and his face under his
gray hood was grim. His usual demeanor of happy-go-lucky cheerfulness had been
replaced by a somber mood Garion had never seen in him before.
"Garion," Wolf said by way of greeting. "You've grown, I see."
"It's been five years," Garion said.
"Has it been so long?"
Garion nodded, falling into step beside his friend.
"Is everyone well?" Wolf asked.
"Oh yes," Garion said. "Everything's the same here-except that Breldo got
married and moved away, and the old brown cow died last summer."
"I remember the cow," Wolf said. Then he said, "I must speak with your Aunt
Pol."
"She's not in a very good mood today," Garion warned. "It might be better if you
rested in one of the barns. I can sneak some food and drink to you in a bit."
"We'll have to chance her mood," Wolf said. "What I have to say to her can't
wait."
They entered the gate and crossed the courtyard to the kitchen door. Aunt Pol
was waiting. "You again?" she said tartly, her hands on her hips. "My kitchen
still hasn't recovered from your last visit."
"Mistress Pol," Wolf said, bowing. Then he did a strange thing. His fingers
traced an intricate little design in the air in front of his chest. Garion was
quite sure that he was not intended to see those gestures.
Aunt Pol's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and her face became grim.
"How do you-" she started, then caught herself. "Garion," she said sharply, "I
need some carrots. There are still some in the ground at the far end of the
kitchen garden. Take a spade and a pail and fetch me some."
"But " he protested, and then, warned by her expression, he left quickly. He got
a spade and pail from a nearby shed and then loitered near the kitchen door.
Eavesdropping, of course, was not a nice habit and was considered the worst sort
of bad manners in Sendaria, but Garion had long ago concluded that whenever he
was sent away, the conversation was bound to be very interesting and would
probably concern him rather intimately. He had wrestled briefly with his
conscience about it; but, since he really saw no harm in the practice - as long
as he didn't repeat anything he heard - conscience had lost to curiosity.
Garion's ears were very sharp, but it took him a moment or two to separate the
two familiar voices from the other sounds in the kitchen.
"He will not leave you a trail," Aunt Pol was saying.
"He doesn't have to," Wolf replied. "The thing itself will make its trail known
to me. I can follow it as easily as a fox can scent out the track of a rabbit."
"Where will he take it?" he asked.
"Who can say? His mind is closed to me. My guess is that he'll go north to
Boktor. That's the shortest route to Gar og Nadrak. He'll know that I'll be
after him, and he'll want to cross into the lands of the Angaraks as soon as
possible. His theft won't be complete so long as he stays in the west."
"When did it happen?"
"Four weeks ago."
"He could already be in the Angarak kingdoms."
"That's not likely. The distances are great; but if he is, I'll have to follow
him. I'll need your help."
"But how can I leave here?" Aunt Pol asked. "I have to watch over the boy."
Garion's curiosity was becoming almost unbearable. He edged closer to the
kitchen door.
"The boy'll be safe enough here," Wolf said. "This is an urgent matter."
"No," Aunt Pol contradicted. "Even this place isn't safe. Last Erastide a Murgo
and five Thulls came here. He posed as a merchant, but he asked a few too many
questions - about an old man and a boy named Rundorig who had been seen in Upper
Gralt some years ago. He may also have recognized me."
"It's more serious than I thought, then," Wolf said thoughtfully. "We'll have to
move the boy. We can leave him with friends elsewhere."
"No," Aunt Pol disagreed again. "If I go with you, he'll have to go along. He's
reaching an age where he has to be watched most carefully."
"Don't be foolish," Wolf said sharply.
Garion was stunned. Nobody talked to Aunt Pol that way.
"It's my decision to make," Aunt Pol said crisply. "We all agreed that he was to
be in my care until he was grown. I won't go unless he goes with me."
Garion's heart leaped.
"Pol," Wolf said sharply, "think where we may have to go. You can't deliver the
boy into those hands."
"He'd be safer in Cthol Murgos or in Mallorea itself than he would be here
without me to watch him," Aunt Pol said. "Last spring I caught him in the barn
with a girl about his own age. As I said, he needs watching."
Wolf laughed then, a rich, merry sound.
"Is that all?" he said. "You worry too much about such things."
"How would you like it if we returned and found him married and about to become
a father?" Aunt Pol demanded acidly. "He'd make an excellent farmer, and what
matter if we'd all have to wait a hundred years for the circumstances to be
right again?"
"Surely it hasn't gone that far. They're only children."
"You're blind, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said. "This is backcountry Sendaria, and the
boy has been raised to do the proper and honorable thing. The girl is a
bright-eyed little minx who's maturing much too rapidly for my comfort. Right
now charming little Zubrette is a far greater danger than any Murgo could ever
be. Either the boy goes along, or I won't go either. You have your
responsibilities, and I have mine."
"There's no time to argue," Wolf said. "If it has to be this way, then so be
it."
Garion almost choked with excitement. He felt only a passing, momentary pang at
leaving Zubrette behind. He turned and looked exultantly up at the clouds
scudding across the evening sky. And, because his back was turned, he did not
see Aunt Pol approach through the kitchen door.
"The garden, as I recall, lies beyond the south wall," she pointed out.
Garion started guiltily.
"How is it that the carrots remain undug?" she demanded.
"I had to look for the spade," he said unconvincingly.
"Really? I see that you found it, however." Her eyebrows arched dangerously.
"Only just now."
"Splendid. Carrots, Garion-novel"
Garion grabbed his spade and pail and ran.
It was just dusk when he returned, and he saw Aunt Pol mounting the steps that
led to Faldor's quarters. He might have followed her to listen, but a faint
movement in the dark doorway of one of the sheds made him step instead into the
shadow of the gate. A furtive figure moved from the shed to the foot of the
stairs Aunt Pol had just climbed and silently crept up the stairs as soon as she
went in Faldor's door. The light was fading, and Garion could not see exactly
who followed his Aunt. He set down his pail and, grasping the spade like a
weapon, he hurried quickly around the inner court, keeping to the shadows.
There came the sound of a movement inside the chambers upstairs, and the figure
at the door straightened quickly and scurried down the steps. Garion slipped
back out of sight, his spade still held at the ready. As the figure passed him,
Garion briefly caught the scent of stale, musty clothing and rank sweat. As
certainly as if he had seen the man's face, he knew that the figure that had
followed his Aunt had been Brill, the new farmhand.
The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Garion heard his Aunt's voice.
"I'm sorry, Faldor, but it's a family matter, and I must leave immediately."
"I would pay you more, Pol." Faldor's voice was almost breaking.
"Money has nothing to do with it," Aunt Pol replied. "You're a good man, Faldor,
and your farm has been a haven to me when I needed one. I'm grateful to you more than you can know - but I must leave."
"Perhaps when this family business is over, you can come back," Faldor almost
pleaded.
"No, Faldor," she said. "I'm afraid not."
"We'll miss you, Pol," Faldor said with tears in his voice.
"And I'll miss you, dear Faldor. I've never met a better-hearted man. I'd take
it kindly if you wouldn't mention my leaving until I've gone. I'm not fond of
explanations or sentimental good-byes."
"Whatever you wish, Pol."
"Don't look so mournful, old friend," Aunt Pol said lightly. "My helpers are
well-trained. Their cooking will be the same as mine. Your stomach will never
know the difference."
"My heart will," Faldor said.
"Don't be silly," she said gently. "Now I must see to supper." Garion moved
quickly away from the foot of the stairs. Troubled, he put his spade back in the
shed and fetched the pail of carrots he had left sitting by the gate. To reveal
to his Aunt that he had seen Brill listening at the door would immediately raise
questions about his own activities that he would prefer not to have to answer.
In all probability Brill was merely curious, and there was nothing menacing or
ominous about that. To observe the unsavory Brill duplicating his own seemingly
harmless pastime, however, made Garion quite uncomfortable - even slightly
ashamed of himself.
Although Garion was much too excited to eat, supper that evening seemed as
ordinary as any meal on Faldor's farm had ever been. Garion covertly watched
sour-faced Brill, but the man showed no outward sign of having in any way been
changed by the conversation he had gone to so much trouble to overhear.
When supper was over, as was always the case when he visited the farm, Mister
Wolf was prevailed upon to tell a story. He rose and stood for a moment deep in
thought as the wind moaned in the chimney and the torches flickered in their
rings on the pillars in the hall.
"As all men know," he began, "the Marags are no more, and the Spirit of Mara
weeps alone in the wilderness and wails among the mossgrown ruins of Maragor.
But also, as all men know, the hills and streams of Maragor are heavy with fine
yellow gold. That gold, of course, was the cause of the destruction of the
Marags. When a certain neighboring kingdom became aware of the gold, the
temptation became too great, and the result - as it almost always is when gold
is at issue between kingdoms - was war. The pretext for the war was the
lamentable fact that the Marags were cannibals. While this habit is distasteful
to civilized men, had there not been gold in Maragor it might have been
overlooked.
"The war, however, was inevitable, and the Marags were slain. But the Spirit of
Mara and the ghosts of all the slaughtered Marags remained in Maragor, as those
who went into that haunted kingdom soon discovered."
"Now it chanced to happen that about that time there lived in the town of Muros
in southern Sendaria three adventuresome men, and, hearing of all that gold,
they resolved to journey down to Maragor to claim their share of it. The men, as
I said, were adventuresome and bold, and they scoffed at the tales of ghosts.
"Their journey was long, for it is many hundreds of leagues from Muros to the
upper reaches of Maragor, but the smell of the gold drew them on. And so it
happened, one dark and stormy night, that they crept across the border into
Maragor past the patrols which had been set to turn back just such as they. That
nearby kingdom, having gone to all the expense and inconvenience of war, was
quite naturally reluctant to share the gold with anyone who chanced to pass by.
"Through the night they crept, burning with their lust for gold. The Spirit of
Mara wailed about them, but they were brave men and not afraid of spirits - and
besides, they told each other, the sound was not truly a spirit, but merely the
moaning of the wind in the trees.
"As dim and misty morning seeped amongst the hills, they could hear, not far
away, the rushing sound of a river. As all men know, gold is most easily found
along the banks of rivers, and so they made quickly toward that sound.
"Then one of them chanced to look down in the dim light, and behold, the ground
at his feet was strewn with gold-lumps and chunks of it. Overcome with greed, he
remained silent and loitered behind until his companions were out of sight; then
he fell to his knees and began to gather up gold as a child might pick flowers.
"He heard a sound behind him and he turned. What he saw it is best not to say.
Dropping all his gold, he bolted.
"Now the river they had heard cut through a gorge just about there, and his two
companions were amazed to see him run off the edge of that gorge and even
continue to run as he fell, his legs churning insubstantial air. Then they
turned, and they saw what had been pursuing him.
"One went quite mad and leaped with a despairing cry into the same gorge which
had just claimed his companion, but the third adventurer, the bravest and
boldest of all, told himself that no ghost could actually hurt a living man and
stood his ground. That, of course, was the worst mistake of all. The ghosts
encircled him as he stood bravely, certain that they could not hurt him."
Mister Wolf paused and drank briefly from his tankard. "And then," the old
storyteller continued, "because even ghosts can become hungry, they divided him
up and ate him."
Garion's hair stood on end at the shocking conclusion of Wolf's tale, and he
could sense the others at his table shuddering. It was not at all the kind of
story they had expected to hear.
Durnik the smith, who was sitting nearby, had a perplexed expression on his
plain face. Finally he spoke. "I would not question the truth of your story for
the world," he said to Wolf, struggling with the words, "but if they ate him the ghosts, I mean - where did it go? I mean -if ghosts are insubstantial, as
all men say they are, they don't have stomachs, do they? And what would they
bite with?"
Wolf's face grew sly and mysterious. He raised one finger as if he were about to
make some cryptic reply to Durnik's puzzled question, and then he suddenly began
to laugh.
Durnik looked annoyed at first, and then, rather sheepishly, he too began to
laugh. Slowly the laughter spread as they all began to understand the joke.
"An excellent jest, old friend," Faldor said, laughing as hard as any of the
others, "and one from which much instruction may be gained. Greed is bad, but
fear is worse, and the world is dangerous enough without cluttering it with
imaginary hobgoblins." Trust Faldor to twist a good story into a moralistic
sermon of some kind.
"True enough, good Faldor," Wolf said more seriously, "but there are things in
this world which cannot be explained away or dismissed with laughter."
Brill, seated near the fire, had not joined in the laughter.
"I have never seen a ghost," he said sourly, "nor ever met anyone who has, and I
for one do not believe in any kind of magic or sorcery or such childishness."
And he stood up and stamped out of the hall almost as if the story had been a
kind of personal insult.
Later, in the kitchen, when Aunt Pol was seeing to the cleaning up and Wolf
lounged against one of the worktables with a tankard of beer, Garion's struggle
with his conscience finally came into the open. That dry, interior voice
informed him most pointedly that concealing what he had seen was not merely
foolish, but possibly dangerous as well. He set down the pot he was scrubbing
and crossed to where they were. "It might not be important," he said carefully,
"but this afternoon, when I was coming back from the garden, I saw Brill
following you, Aunt Pol."
She turned and looked at him. Wolf set down his tankard.
"Go on, Garion," Aunt Pol said.
"It was when you went up to talk with Faldor," Garion explained. "He waited
until you'd gone up the stairs and Faldor had let you in. Then he sneaked up and
listened at the door. I saw him up there when I went to put the spade away."
"How long has this man Brill been at the farm?" Wolf asked, frowning.
"He came just last spring," Garion said, "after Breldo got married and moved
away."
"And the Murgo merchant was here at Erastide some months before?"
Aunt Pol looked at him sharply.
"You think-" She did not finish.
"I think it might not be a bad idea if I were to step around and have a few
words with friend Brill," Wolf said grimly, "Do you know where his room is,
Garion?"
Garion nodded, his heart suddenly racing.
"Show me." Wolf moved away from the table against which he had been lounging,
and his step was no longer the step of an old man. It was curiously as if the
years had suddenly dropped away from him.
"Be careful," Aunt Pol warned.
Wolf chuckled, and the sound was chilling. "I'm always careful. You should know
that by now."
Garion quickly led Wolf out into the yard and around to the far end where the
steps mounted to the gallery that led to the rooms of the farmhands. They went
up, their soft leather shoes making no sound on the worn steps.
"Down here," Garion whispered, not knowing exactly why he whispered.
Wolf nodded, and they went quietly down the dark gallery.
"Here," Garion whispered, stopping.
"Step back," Wolf breathed. He touched the door with his fingertips.
"Is it locked?" Garion asked.
"That's no problem," Wolf said softly. He put his hand to the latch, there was a
click, and the door swung open. Wolf stepped inside with Garion close behind.
It was totally dark in the room, and the sour stink of Brill's unwashed clothes
hung in the air.
"He's not here," Wolf said in a normal tone. He fumbled with something at his
belt, and there was the scrape of flint against steel and a flare of sparks. A
wisp of frayed rope caught the sparks and began to glow. Wolf blew on the spark
for a second, and it flared into flame. He raised the burning wisp over his head
and looked around the empty room.
The floor and bed were littered with rumpled clothes and personal belongings.
Garion knew instantly that this was not simple untidiness, but rather was the
sign of a hasty departure, and he did not know exactly how it was that he knew.
Wolf stood for a moment, holding his little torch. His face seemed somehow
empty, as if his mind were searching for something.
"The stables," he said sharply. "Quickly, boy!"
Garion turned and dashed from the room with Wolf close behind. The burning wisp
of rope drifted down into the yard, illuminating it briefly after Wolf discarded
it over the railing as he ran.
There was a light in the stable. It was dim, partially covered, but faint beams
shone through the weathered cracks in the door. The horses were stirring
uneasily.
"Stay clear, boy," Wolf said as he jerked the stable door open.
Brill was inside, struggling to saddle a horse that shied from his rank smell.
"Leaving, Brill?" Wolf asked, stepping into the doorway with his arms crossed.
Brill turned quickly, crouched and with a snarl on his unshaven face. His off
center eye gleamed whitely in the half muffled light of the lantern hanging from
a peg on one of the stalls, and his broken teeth shone behind his pulled-back
lips.
"A strange time for a journey," Wolf said dryly.
"Don't interfere with me, old man," Brill said, his tone menacing. "You'll
regret it."
"I've regretted many things in my life," Wolf said. "I doubt that one more will
make all that much difference."
"I warned you." Brill snarled, and his hand dove under his cloak and emerged
with a short, rust-splotched sword.
"Don't be stupid," Wolf said in a tone of overwhelming contempt. Garion,
however, at the first flash of the sword, whipped his hand to his belt, drew his
dagger, and stepped in front of the unarmed old man. "Get back, boy," Wolf
barked.
But Garion had already lunged forward, his bright dagger thrust out ahead of
him. Later, when he had time to consider, he could not have explained why he
reacted as he did. Some deep instinct seemed to take over.
"Garion," Wolf said, "get out of the way!"
"So much the better," Brill said, raising his sword.
And then Durnik was there. He appeared as if from nowhere, snatched up an ox
yoke and struck the sword from Brill's hand. Brill turned on him, enraged, and
Durnik's second blow took the cast-eyed man in the ribs, a little below the
armpit. The breath whooshed from Brill's lungs, and he collapsed, gasping and
writhing to the straw-littered floor.
"For shame, Garion," Durnik said reproachfully. "I didn't make that knife of
yours for this kind of thing."
"He was going to kill Mister Wolf," Garion protested.
"Never mind that," Wolf said, bending over the gasping man on the floor of the
stable. He searched Brill roughly and pulled a jingling purse out from under the
stained tunic. He carried the purse to the lantern and opened it.
"That's mine," Brill gasped, trying to rise. Durnik raised the ox yoke, and
Brill sank back again.
"A sizable sum for an ordinary farmhand to have, friend Brill," Wolf said,
pouring the jingling coins from the purse into his hand. "How did you manage to
come by it?"
Brill glared at him.
Garion's eyes grew wide at the sight of the coins. He had never seen gold
before.
"You don't really need to answer, friend Brill," Wolf said, examining one of the
coins. "Your gold speaks for you." He dumped the coins back in the purse and
tossed the small leather pouch back to the man on the floor. Brill grabbed it
quickly and pushed it back inside his tunic.
"I'll have to tell Faldor of this," Durnik said.
"No," Wolf said.
"It's a serious matter," Durnik said. "A bit of wrestling or a few blows
exchanged is one thing, but drawing weapons is quite another."
"There's no time for all of that," Wolf said, taking a piece of harness strap
from a peg on the wall. "Bind his hands behind him, and we'll put him in one of
the grain bins. Someone will find him in the morning."
Durnik stared at him.
"Trust me, good Durnik," Wolf said. "The matter is urgent. Bind him and hide him
someplace; then come to the kitchen. Come with me, Garion." And he turned and
left the stable.
Aunt Pol was pacing her kitchen nervously when they returned.
"Well?" she demanded.
"He was attempting to leave," Wolf said. "We stopped him."
"Did you-?" she left it hanging.
"No. He drew a sword, but Durnik chanced to be nearby and knocked the
belligerence out of him. The intervention was timely. Your cub here was about to
do battle. That little dagger of his is a pretty thing, but not really much of a
match for a sword."
Aunt Pol turned on Garion, her eyes ablaze. Garion prudently stepped back out of
reach.
"There's no time for that," Wolf said, retrieving the tankard he had set down
before leaving the kitchen. "Brill had a pouchful of good red Angarak gold. The
Murgos have set eyes to watching this place. I'd wanted to make our going less
noticeable, but since we're already being watched, there's no point in that now.
Gather what you and the boy will need. I want a few leagues between us and Brill
before he manages to free himself. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder
for Murgos every place I go."
Durnik, who had just come into the kitchen, stopped and stood staring at them.
"Things aren't what they seem here," he said. "What manner of folk are you, and
how is it that you have such dangerous enemies?"
"That's a long story, good Durnik," Wolf said, "but I'm afraid there's no time
to tell it now. Make our apologies to Faldor, and see if you can't detain Brill
for a day or so. I'd like our trail to be quite cold before he or his friends
try to find it."
"Someone else is going to have to do that," Durnik said slowly. "I'm not sure
what this is all about, but I am sure that there's danger involved in it. It
appears that I'll have to go with you - at least until I've gotten you safely
away from here."
Aunt Pol suddenly laughed.
"You, Durnik? You mean to protect us?"
He drew himself up.
"I'm sorry, Mistress Pol," he said. "I will not permit you to go unescorted."
"Will not permit?" she said incredulously.
"Very well," Wolf said, a sly look on his face.
"Have you totally taken leave of your senses?" Aunt Pol demanded, turning on
him.
"Durnik has shown himself to be a useful man," Wolf said. "If nothing else,
he'll give me someone to talk with along the way. Your tongue has grown sharper
with the years, Pol, and I don't relish the idea of a hundred leagues or more
with nothing but abuse for companionship."
"I see that you've finally slipped into your dotage, Old Wolf," she said acidly.
"That's exactly the sort of thing I meant," Wolf replied blandly. "Now gather a
few necessary things, and let's be away from here. The night is passing
rapidly."
She glared at him a moment and then stormed out of the kitchen.
"I'll have to fetch some things too," Durnik said. He turned and went out into
the gusty night.
Garion's mind whirled. Things were happening far too fast.
"Afraid, boy?" Wolf asked.
"Well-" Garion said. "It's just that I don't understand. I don't understand any
of this at all."
"You will in time, Garion," Wolf said. "For now it's better perhaps that you
don't. There's danger in what we're doing, but not all that great a danger. Your
Aunt and I - and good Durnik, of course - will see that no harm comes to you.
Now help me in the pantry." He took a lantern into the pantry and began loading
some loaves of bread, a ham, a round yellow cheese and several bottles of wine
into a sack which he took down from a peg.
It was nearly midnight, as closely as Garion could tell, when they quietly left
the kitchen and crossed the dark courtyard. The faint creak of the gate as
Durnik swung it open seemed enormously loud.
As they passed through the gate, Garion felt a momentary pang. Faldor's farm had
been the only home he had ever known. He was leaving now, perhaps forever, and
such things had great significance. He felt an even sharper pang at the memory
of Zubrette. The thought of Doroon and Zubrette together in the hay barn almost
made him want to give the whole thing up altogether, but it was far too late
now.
Beyond the protection of the buildings, the gusty wind was chill and whipped at
Garion's cloak. Heavy clouds covered the moon, and the road seemed only slightly
less dark than the surrounding fields. It was cold and lonely and more than a
little frightening. He walked a bit closer to Aunt Pol.
At the top of the hill he stopped and glanced back. Faldor's farm was only a
pale, dim blur in the valley behind. Regretfully, he turned his back on it. The
valley ahead was very dark, and even the road was lost in the gloom before them.
Chapter Six
THEY HAD WALKED for miles, how many Garion could not say. He nodded as he
walked, and sometimes stumbled over unseen stones on the dark road. More than
anything now he wanted to sleep. His eyes burned, and his legs trembled on the
verge of exhaustion.
At the top of another hill - there always seemed to be another hill, for that
part of Sendaria was folded like a rumpled cloth - Mister Wolf stopped and
looked about, his eyes searching the oppressive gloom.
"We turn aside from the road here," he announced.
"Is that wise?" Durnik asked. "There are woods hereabout, and I've heard that
there may be robbers hiding there. Even if there aren't any robbers, aren't we
likely to lose our way in the dark?" He looked up at the murky sky, his plain
face, dimly seen, troubled. "I wish there was a moon."
"I don't think we need to be afraid of robbers," Wolf said confidently, "and I'm
just as happy that there isn't a moon. I don't think we're being followed yet,
but it's just as well that no one happens to see us pass. Murgo gold can buy
most secrets." And with that he led them into the fields that lay beside the
road.
For Garion the fields were impossible. If he had stumbled now and then on the
road, the unseen furrows, holes, and clumps in the rough ground seemed to catch
at his feet with every step. At the end of a mile, when they reached the black
edge of the woods, he was almost ready to weep with exhaustion.
"How can we find our way in there?" he demanded, peering into the utter darkness
of the woods.
"There's a woodcutter's track not far to this side," Wolf said, pointing. "We
only have a little farther to go." And he set off again, following the edge of
the dark woods, with Garion and the others stumbling along behind him. "Here we
are," he said finally, stopping to allow them to catch up. "It's going to be
very dark in there, and the track isn't wide. I'll go first, and the rest of you
follow me."
"I'll be right behind you, Garion," Durnik said. "Don't worry. Everything will
be all right." There was a note in the smith's voice, however, that hinted that
his words were more to reassure himself than to calm the boy.
It seemed warmer in the woods. The trees sheltered them from the gusty wind, but
it was so dark that Garion could not understand how Wolf could possibly find his
way. A dreadful suspicion grew in his mind that Wolf actually did not know where
he was going and was merely floundering along blindly, trusting to luck.
"Stop," a rumbling voice suddenly, shockingly, said directly ahead of them.
Garion's eyes, accustomed slightly now to the gloom of the woods, saw a vague
outline of something so huge that it could not possibly be a man.
"A giant!" he screamed in a sudden panic. Then, because he was exhausted and
because everything that had happened that evening had simply piled too much upon
him all at one time, his nerve broke and he bolted into the trees.
"Garion!" Aunt Pol's voice cried out after him, "come back!"
But panic had taken hold of him. He ran on, falling over roots and bushes,
crashing into trees and tangling his legs in brambles. It seemed like some
endless nightmare of blind flight. He ran full tilt into a lowhanging, unseen
branch, and sparks flared before his eyes with the sudden blow to his forehead.
He lay on the damp earth, gasping and sobbing, trying to clear his head.
And then there were hands on him, horrid, unseen hands. A thousand terrors
flashed through his mind at once, and he struggled desperately, trying to draw
his dagger.
"Oh, no," a voice said. "None of that, my rabbit." His dagger was taken from
him.
"Are you going to eat me?" Garion babbled, his voice breaking.
His captor laughed.
"On your feet, rabbit," he said, and Garion felt himself pulled up by a strong
hand. His arm was taken in a firm grasp, and he was half dragged through the
woods.
Somewhere ahead there was a light, a winking fire among the trees, and it seemed
that he was being taken that way. He knew that he must think, must devise some
means of escape, but his mind, stunned by fright and exhaustion, refused to
function.
There were three wagons sitting in a rough half circle around the fire. Durnik
was there, and Wolf, and Aunt Pol, and with them a man so huge that Garion's
mind simply refused to accept the possibility that he was real. His tree-trunk
sized legs were wrapped in furs cross-tied with leather thongs, and he wore a
chain-mail shirt that reached to his knees, belted at the waist. From the belt
hung a ponderous sword on one side and a short-handled axe on the other. His
hair was in braids, and he had a vast, bristling red beard.
As they came into the light, Garion was able to see the man who had captured
him. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Garion himself, and his face was
dominated by a long pointed nose. His eyes were small and squinted, and his
straight, black hair was raggedly cut. The face was not the sort to inspire
confidence, and the man's stained and patched tunic and short, wicked-looking
sword did little to contradict the implications of the face.
"Here's our rabbit," the small, weasel-like man announced as he pulled Garion
into the circle of the firelight. "And a merry chase he led me, too."
Aunt Pol was furious.
"Don't you ever do that again," she said sternly to Garion.
"Not so quick, Mistress Pol," Wolf said. "It's better for him to run than to
fight just yet. Until he's bigger, his feet are his best friends."
"Have we been captured by robbers?" Garion asked in a quavering voice.
"Robbers?" Wolf laughed. "What a wild imagination you have, boy. These two are
our friends."
"Friends?" Garion asked doubtfully, looking suspiciously at the redbearded giant
and the weasel-faced man beside him. "Are you sure?" The giant laughed then too,
his voice rumbling like an earthquake.
"The boy seems mistrustful," he boomed. "Your face must have warned him, friend
Silk."
The smaller man looked sourly at his burly companion.
"This is Garion," Wolf said, pointing at the boy. "You already know Mistress
Pol." His voice seemed to stress Aunt Pol's name. "And this is Durnik, a brave
smith who has decided to accompany us."
"Mistress Pol?" the smaller man said, laughing suddenly for no apparent reason.
"I am known so," Aunt Pol said pointedly.
"It shall be my pleasure to call you so then, great lady," the small man said
with a mocking bow.
"Our large friend here is Barak," Wolf went on. "He's useful to have around when
there's trouble. As you can see, he's not a Sendar, but a Cherek from Val
Alorn."
Garion had never seen a Cherek before, and the fearful tales of their prowess in
battle became suddenly quite believable in the presence of the towering Barak.
"And I," the small man said with one hand to his chest, "am called Silk - not
much of a name, I'll admit, but one which suits me - and I am from Boktor in
Drasnia. I am a juggler and an acrobat."
"And also a thief and a spy," Barak rumbled good-naturedly.
"We all have our faults," Silk admitted blandly, scratching at his scraggly
whiskers.
"And I'm called Mister Wolf in this particular time and place," the old man
said. "I'm rather fond of the name, since the boy there gave it to me."
"Mister Wolf?" Silk asked, and then he laughed again. "What a merry name for
you, old friend."
"I'm delighted that you find it so, old friend," Wolf said flatly. "Mister Wolf
it shall be, then," Silk said. "Come to the fire, friends. Warm yourselves, and
I'll see to some food."
Garion was still uncertain about the oddly matched pair. They obviously knew
Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf - and just as obviously by different names. The fact
that Aunt Pol might not be whom he had always thought she was was very
disturbing. One of the foundation stones of his entire life had just
disappeared.
The food which Silk brought was rough, a turnip stew with thick chunks of meat
floating in it and crudely hacked off slabs of bread, but Garion, amazed at the
size of his appetite, fell into it as if he had not eaten for days.
And then, his stomach full and his feet warmed by the crackling campfire, he sat
on a log, half dozing.
"What now, Old Wolf?" he heard Aunt Pol ask. "What's the idea behind these
clumsy wagons?"
"A brilliant plan," Wolf said, "even if I do say it myself. There are, as you
know, wagons going every which way in Sendaria at this time of year. Harvests
are moving from field to farm, from farm to village and from village to town.
Nothing is more unremarkable in Sendaria than wagons. They're so common that
they're almost invisible. This is how we're going to travel. We're now honest
freight haulers."
"We're what?" Aunt Pol demanded.
"Wagoneers," Wolf said expansively. "Hard-working transporters of the goods of
Sendaria - out to make our fortunes and seek adventure, bitten by the desire to
travel, incurably infected by the romance of the road."
"Have you any idea how long it takes to travel by wagon?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Six to ten leagues a day," he told her. "Slow, I'll grant you, but it's better
to move slowly than to attract attention."
She shook her head in disgust.
"Where first, Mister Wolf?" Silk asked.
"To Darine," Wolf announced. "If the one we're following went to the north,
he'll have to have passed through Darine on his way to Boktor and beyond."
"And what exactly are we carrying to Darine?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Turnips, great lady," Silk said. "Last morning my large friend and I purchased
three wagonloads of them in the village of Winold."
"Turnips?" Aunt Pol asked in a tone that spoke volumes.
"Yes, great lady, turnips," Silk said solemnly.
"Are we ready, then?" Wolf asked.
"We are," the giant Barak said shortly, rising with his mail shirt clinking.
"We should look the part," Wolf said carefully, eyeing Barak up and down. "Your
armor, my friend, is not the sort of garb an honest wagoneer would wear. I think
you should change it for stout wool."
Barak's face looked injured.
"I could wear a tunic over it," he suggested tentatively.
"You rattle," Silk pointed out, "and armor has a distinctive fragrance about it.
From the downwind side you smell like a rusty ironworks, Barak."
"I feel undressed without a mail shirt," Barak complained.
"We must all make sacrifices," Silk said.
Grumbling, Barak went to one of the wagons, jerked out a bundle of clothes and
began to pull off his mail shirt. His linen undertunic bore large, reddish rust
stains.
"I'd change tunics as well," Silk suggested. "Your shirt smells as bad as the
armor."
Barak glowered at him. "Anything else?" he demanded. "I hope, for decency's
sake, you don't plan to strip me entirely."
Silk laughed.
Barak pulled off his tunic. His torso was enormous and covered with thick red
hair.
"You look like a rug," Silk observed.
"I can't help that," Barak said. "Winters are cold in Cherek, and the hair helps
me to stay warm." He put on a fresh tunic.
"It's just as cold in Drasnia," Silk said. "Are you absolutely sure your
grandmother didn't dally with a bear during one of those long winters?"
"Someday your mouth is going to get you into a great deal of trouble, friend
Silk," Barak said ominously.
Silk laughed again. "I've been in trouble most of my life, friend Barak."
"I wonder why," Barak said ironically.
"I think all this could be discussed later," Wolf said pointedly. "I'd rather
like to be away from here before the week's out, if I can."
"Of course, old friend," Silk said, jumping up. "Barak and I can amuse each
other later."
Three teams of sturdy horses were picketed nearby, and they all helped to
harness them to the wagons.
"I'll put out the fire," Silk said and fetched two pails of water from a small
brook that trickled nearby. The fire hissed when the water struck it, and great
clouds of steam boiled up toward the low-hanging tree limbs.
"We'll lead the horses to the edge of the wood," Wolf said. "I'd rather not pick
my teeth on a low branch."
The horses seemed almost eager to start and moved without urging along a narrow
track through the dark woods. They stopped at the edge of the open fields, and
Wolf looked around carefully to see if anyone was in sight.
"I don't see anybody," he said. "Let's get moving."
"Ride with me, good smith," Barak said to Durnik. "Conversation with an honest
man is much preferable to a night spent enduring the insults of an over-clever
Drasnian."
"As you wish, friend," Durnik said politely.
"I'll lead," Silk said. "I'm familiar with the back roads and lanes hereabouts.
I'll put us on the high road beyond Upper Gralt before noon. Barak and Durnik
can bring up the rear. I'm sure that between them they can discourage anyone who
might feel like following us."
"All right," Wolf said, climbing up onto the seat of the middle wagon. He
reached down his hand and helped up Aunt Pol.
Garion quickly climbed up onto the wagon bed behind them, a trifle nervous that
someone might suggest that he ride with Silk. It was all very well for Mister
Wolf to say that the two they had just met were friends, but the fright he had
suffered in the wood was still too fresh in his mind to make him quite
comfortable with them.
The sacks of musty-smelling turnips were lumpy, but Garion soon managed to push
and shove a kind of half reclining seat for himself among them just behind Aunt
Pol and Mister Woif. He was sheltered from the wind, Aunt Pol was close, and his
cloak, spread over him, kept him warm. He was altogether comfortable, and,
despite the excitement of the night's events, he soon drifted into a half
drowse. The dry voice in his mind suggested briefly that he had not behaved too
well back in the wood, but it too soon fell silent, and Garion slept.
It was the change of sound that woke him. T'he soft thud of the horses' hooves
on the dirt road became a clatter as they came to the cobblestones of a small
village sleeping in the last chill hours of the autumn night. Garion opened his
eyes and looked sleepily at the tall, narrow houses with their tiny windows all
dark.
A dog barked briefly, then retreated back to his warm place under some stairs.
Garion wondered what village it might be and how many people slept under those
steep-peaked tile roofs, unaware of the passage of their three wagons.
The cobbled street was very narrow, and Garion could almost have reached out and
touched the weathered stones of the houses as they passed.
And then the nameless village was behind them, and they were back on the road
again. The soft sound of the horses' hooves lured him once more toward sleep.
"What if he hasn't passed through Darine?" Aunt Pol asked Mister Wolf in a low
tone.
It occurred to Garion that in all the excitement he had never actually found out
exactly what it was that they were seeking. He kept his eyes closed and
listened.
"Don't start with the `what ifs,' " Wolf said irritably. "If we sit around
saying `what if,' we'll never do anything."
"I was merely asking," Aunt Pol said.
"If he hasn't gone through Darine, we'll turn south - to Muros. He may have
joined a caravan there to take the Great North Road to Boktor."
"And if he hasn't gone through Muros?"
"Then we go on to Camaar."
"And then?"
"We'll see when we get to Camaar." His tone was final, as if he no longer wished
to discuss the matter.
Aunt Pol drew in a breath as if she were about to deliver some final retort, but
apparently she decided against it and settled back instead on the wagon seat.
To the east, ahead of them, the faint stain of dawn touched the lowering clouds,
and they moved on through the tattered, windswept end of the long night in their
search for something which, though he could not yet even identify it, was so
important that Garion's entire life had been uprooted in a single day because of
it.
Chapter Seven
IT TOOK THEM FOUR DAYS to reach Darine On the north coast. The first day went
quite well, since, though it was cloudy and the wind kept blowing, the air was
dry and the roads were good. They passed quiet farmsteads and an occasional
farmer bent to his labor in the middle of a field. Inevitably each man stopped
his work to watch them pass. Some waved, but some did not.
And then there were villages, clusters of tall houses nestled in valleys. As
they passed, the children came out and ran after the wagons, shouting with
excitement. The villagers watched, idly curious, until it became obvious that
the wagons were not going to stop, and then they sniffed and went back to their
own concerns.
As afternoon of that first day lowered toward evening, Silk led them into a
grove of trees at the roadside, and they made preparations for the night. They
ate the last of the ham and cheese Wolf had filched from Faldor's pantry and
then spread their blankets on the ground beneath the wagons. The ground was hard
and cold, but the exciting sense of being on some great adventure helped Garion
to endure the discomfort.
The next morning, however, it began to rain. It was a fine, misty rain at first,
scattering before the wind, but as the morning wore on, it settled into a steady
drizzle. The musty smell of the turnips in their wet sacks became stronger, and
Garion huddled miserably with his cloak pulled tightly around him. The adventure
was growing much less exciting.
The road became muddy and slick, and the horses struggled their way up each hill
and had to be rested often. On the first day they had covered eight leagues;
after that they were lucky to make five.
Aunt Pol became waspish and short-tempered.
"This is idiocy," she said to Mister Wolf about noon on the third day.
"Everything is idiocy if you choose to look at it in the proper light," he
replied philosophically.
"Why wagoneers?" she demanded. "There are faster ways to travels wealthy family
in a proper carriage, for instance, or Imperial messengers on good horses -
either way would have put us in Darine by now."
"And left a trail in the memories of all these simple people we've passed so
wide that even a Thull could follow it," Wolf explained patiently. "Brill has
long since reported our departure to his employers. Every Murgo in Sendaria is
looking for us by now."
"Why are we hiding from the Murgos, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked, hesitant to
interrupt, but impelled by curiosity to try to penetrate the mystery behind
their flight. "Aren't they just merchants-like the Tolnedrans and the
Drasnians?"
"The Murgos have no real interest in trade," Wolf explained. "Nadraks are
merchants, but the Murgos are warriors. The Murgos pose as merchants for the
same reason that we pose as wagoneers - so that they can move about more or less
undetected. If you simply assumed that all Murgos are spies, you wouldn't be too
far from the truth."
"Haven't you anything better to do than ask all these questions?" Aunt Pol
asked.
"Not really," Garion said, and then instantly knew that he'd made a mistake.
"Good," she said. "In the back of Barak's wagon you'll find the dirty dishes
from this morning's meal. You'll also find a bucket. Fetch the bucket and run to
that stream ahead for water, then return to Barak's wagon and wash the dishes."
"In cold water?" he objected.
"Now, Garion," she said firmly.
Grumbling, he climbed down off the slowly moving wagon.
In the late afternoon of the fourth day they came over a high hilltop and saw
below the city of Darine and beyond the city the leaden gray sea.
Garion caught his breath. To his eyes the city looked very large. Its
surrounding walls were thick and high, and there were more buildings within
those walls than he had seen in all his life. But it was to the sea that his
eyes were drawn. There was a sharp tang to the air. Faint hints of that smell
had been coming to him on the wind for the past league or so, but now, inhaling
deeply, he breathed in that perfume of the sea for the first time in his life.
His spirit soared.
"Finally," Aunt Pol said.
Silk had stopped the lead wagon and came walking back. His hood was pulled back
slightly, and the rain ran down his long nose to drip from its pointed tip.
"Do we stop here or go on down to the city?" he asked.
"We go to the city," Aunt Pol said. "I'm not going to sleep under a wagon when
there are inns so close at hand."
"Honest wagoneers would seek out an inn," Mister Wolf agreed, "and a warm
taproom."
"I might have guessed that," Aunt Pol said.
"We have to try to look the part." Wolf shrugged.
They went on down the hill, the horses' hooves slipping and sliding as they
braced back against the weight of the wagons.
At the city gate two watchmen in stained tunics and wearing rustspotted helmets
came out of the tiny watch house just inside the gate.
"What's your business in Darine?" one of them asked Silk.
"I am Ambar of Kotu," Silk lied pleasantly, "a poor Drasnian merchant hoping to
do business in your splendid city."
"Splendid?" one of the watchmen snorted.
"What have you in your wagons, merchant?" the other inquired.
"Turnips," Silk said deprecatingly. "My family has been in the spice trade for
generations, but I'm reduced to peddling turnips." He sighed. "The world is a
topsy-turvy place, is it not, good friend?"
"We're obliged to inspect your wagons," the watchman said. "It'll take some
time, I'm afraid."
"And a wet time at that," Silk said, squinting up into the rain. "It would be
much more pleasant to devote the time to wetting one's inside in some friendly
tavern."
"That's difficult when one doesn't have much money," the watchman suggested
hopefully.
"I'd be more than pleased if you'd accept some small token of friendship from me
to aid you in your wetting," Silk offered.
"You're most kind," the watchman replied with a slight bow.
Some coins changed hands, and the wagons moved on into the city uninspected.
From the hilltop Darine had looked quite splendid, but Garion found it much less
so as they clattered through the wet streets. The buildings all seemed the same
with a kind of self important aloofness about them, and the streets were
littered and dirty. The salt tang of the sea was tainted here with the smell of
dead fish, and the faces of the people hurrying along were grim and unfriendly.
Garion's first excitement began to fade.
"Why are the people all so unhappy?" he asked Mister Wolf.
"They have a stern and demanding God," Wolf replied.
"Which God is that?" Garion asked.
"Money," Wolf said. "Money is a worse God than Torak himself."
"Don't fill the boy's head with nonsense," Aunt Pol said. "The people aren't
really unhappy, Garion. They're just all in a hurry. They have important affairs
to attend to and they're afraid they'll be late. That's all."
"I don't think I'd like to live here," Garion said. "It seems like a bleak,
unfriendly kind of place." He sighed. "Sometimes I wish we were all back at
Faldor's farm."
"There are worse places than Faldor's," Wolf agreed.
The inn Silk chose for them was near the docks, and the smell of the sea and the
rank detritus of the meeting of sea and land was strong there. The inn, however,
was a stout building with stables attached and storage sheds for the wagons.
Like most inns, the main floor was given over to the kitchen and the large
common room with its rows of tables and large fireplaces. The upper floors
provided sleeping chambers for the guests.
"It's a suitable place," Silk announced as he came back out to the wagons after
speaking at some length with the innkeeper. "The kitchen seems clean, and I saw
no bugs when I inspected the sleeping chambers."
"I will inspect it," Aunt Pol said, climbing down from the wagon.
"As you wish, great lady," Silk said with a polite bow.
Aunt Pol's inspection took much longer than Silk's, and it was nearly dark when
she returned to the courtyard. "Adequate," she sniffed, "but only barely."
"It's not as if we planned to settle in for the winter, Pol," Wolf said. "At
most we'll only be here a few days."
She ignored that.
"I've ordered hot water sent up to our chambers," she announced. "I'll take the
boy up and wash him while you and the others see to the wagons and horses. Come
along, Garion." And she turned and went back into the inn.
Garion wished fervently that they would all stop referring to him as the boy. He
did, after all, he reflected, have a name, and it was not that difficult a name
to remember. He was gloomily convinced that even if he lived to have a long gray
beard, they would still speak of him as the boy.
After the horses and wagons had been attended to and they had all washed up,
they went down again to the common room and dined. The meal certainly didn't
match up to Aunt Pol's, but it was a welcome change from turnips. Garion was
absolutely certain that he'd never be able to look a turnip in the face again
for the rest of his life.
After they had eaten, the men loitered over their ale pots, and Aunt Pol's face
registered her disapproval. "Garion and I are going up to bed now," she said to
them. "Try not to fall down too many times when you come up."
Wolf, Barak and Silk laughed at that, but Durnik, Garion thought, looked a bit
shamefaced.
The next day Mister Wolf and Silk left the inn early and were gone all day.
Garion had positioned himself in a strategic place in hopes that he might be
noticed and asked to go along, but he was not; so when Durnik went down to look
after the horses, he accompanied him instead.
"Durnik," he said after they had fed and watered the animals and the smith was
examining their hooves for cuts or stone bruises, "does all this seem strange to
you?"
Durnik carefully lowered the leg of the patient horse he was checking.
"All what, Garion?" he asked, his plain face sober.
"Everything," Garion said rather vaguely. "This journey, Barak and Silk, Mister
Wolf and Aunt Pol - all of it. They all talk sometimes when they don't think I
can hear them. This all seems terribly important, but I can't tell if we're
running away from someone or looking for something."
"It's confusing to me as well, Garion," Durnik admitted. "Many things aren't
what they seem - not what they seem at all."
"Does Aunt Pol seem different to you?" Garion asked. "What I mean is, they all
treat her as if she were a noblewoman or something, and she acts differently
too, now that we're away from Faldor's farm."
"Mistress Pol is a great lady," Durnik said. "I've always known that." His voice
had that same respectful tone it always had when he spoke of her, and Garion
knew that it was useless to try to make Durnik perceive anything unusual about
her.
"And Mister Wolf," Garion said, trying another tack. "I always thought he was
just an old storyteller."
"He doesn't seem to be an ordinary vagabond," Durnik admitted. "I think we've
fallen in with important people, Garion, on important business. It's probably
better for simple folk such as you and I not to ask too many questions, but to
keep our eyes and ears open."
"Will you be going back to Faldor's farm when this is all over?" Garion asked
carefully.
Durnik considered that, looking out across the rainswept courtyard of the inn.
"No," he said finally in a soft voice. "I'll follow as long as Mistress Pol
allows me to."
On an impulse Garion reached out and patted the smith's shoulder. "Everything is
going to turn out for the best, Durnik."
Durnik sighed.
"Let's hope so," he said and turned his attention back to the horses.
"Durnik," Garion asked, "did you know my parents?"
"No," Durnik said. "The first time I saw you, you were a baby in Mistress Pol's
arms."
"What was she like then?"
"She seemed angry," Durnik said. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite so
angry. She talked with Faldor for a while and then went to work in the kitchen you know Faldor. He never turned anyone away in his whole life. At first she was
just a helper, but that didn't last too long. Our old cook was getting fat and
lazy, and she finally went off to live with her youngest daughter. After that,
Mistress Pol ran the kitchen."
"She was a lot younger then, wasn't she?" Garion asked.
"No," Durnik said thoughtfully. "Mistress Pol never changes. She looks exactly
the same now as she did that first day."
"I'm sure it only seems that way," Garion said. "Everybody gets older."
"Not Mistress Pol," Durnik said.
That evening Wolf and his sharp-nosed friend returned, their faces somber.
"Nothing," Wolf announced shortly, scratching at his snowy beard.
"I might have told you that," Aunt Pol sniffed.
Wolf gave her an irritated look, then shrugged.
"We had to be certain," he said.
The red-bearded giant, Barak, looked up from the mail shirt he was polishing.
"No trace at all?" he asked.
"Not a hint," Wolf said. "He hasn't gone through here."
"Where now, then?" Barak asked, setting his mail shirt aside.
"Muros," Wolf said.
Barak rose and went to the window. "The rain is slacking," he said, "but the
roads are going to be difficult."
"We won't be able to leave tomorrow anyway," Silk said, lounging on a stool near
the door. "I have to dispose of our turnips. If we carry them out of Darine with
us, it will seem curious, and we don't want to be remembered by anyone who might
have occasion to talk to any wandering Murgo."
"I suppose you're right," Wolf said. "I hate to lose the time, but there's no
help for it."
"The roads will be better after a day's drying," Silk pointed out, "and wagons
travel faster empty."
"Are you sure you can sell them, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.
"I am a Drasnian," Silk replied confidently. "I can sell anything. We might even
make a good profit."
"Don't worry about that," Wolf said. "The turnips have served their purpose. All
we need to do now is to get rid of them."
"It's a matter of principle," Silk said airily. "Besides, if I don't try to
strike a hard bargain, that too would be remembered. Don't be concerned. The
business won't take long and won't delay us."
"Could I go along with you, Silk?" Garion asked hopefully. "I haven't seen any
part of Darine except for this inn."
Silk looked inquiringly at Aunt Pol.
She considered for a moment. "I don't suppose it would do any harm," she said,
"and it'll give me time to attend to some things."
The next morning after breakfast Silk and Garion set out with Garion carrying a
bag of turnips. The small man seemed to be in extraordinarily good spirits, and
his long, pointed nose seemed almost to quiver. "The whole point," he said as
they walked along the littered, cobblestoned streets, "is not to appear too
eager to sell - and to know the market, of course."
"That sounds reasonable," Garion said politely.
"Yesterday I made a few inquiries," Silk went on. "Turnips are selling on the
docks of Kotu in Drasnia for a Drasnian silver link per hundredweight."
"A what?" Garion asked.
"It's a Drasnian coin," Silk explained, "about the same as a silver imperial not quite, but close enough. The merchant will try to buy our turnips for no
more than a quarter of that, but he'll go as high as half."
"How do you know that?"
"It's customary."
"How many turnips do we have?" Garion asked, stepping around a pile of refuse in
the street.
"We have thirty hundredweight," Silk said.
"That would be-" Garion's face contorted in an effort to make the complex
calculation in his head.
"Fifteen imperials," Silk supplied. "Or three gold crowns."
"Gold?" Garion asked. Because gold coins were so rare in country dealings, the
word seemed to have an almost magic quality.
Silk nodded. "It's always preferable," he said. "It's easier to carry. The
weight of silver becomes burdensome."
"And how much did we pay for the turnips?"
"Five imperials," Silk said.
"The farmer gets five, we get fifteen, and the merchant gets thirty?" Garion
asked incredulously. "That hardly seems fair."
Silk shrugged. "It's the way things are," he said. "There's the merchant's
house." He pointed at a rather imposing building with broad steps. "When we go
in, he'll pretend to be very busy and not at all interested in us. Later, while
he and I are bargaining, he'll notice you and tell you what a splendid boy you
are."
"Me?"
"He'll think that you're some relation of mine - a son or a nephew perhaps - and
he'll think to gain advantage over me by flattering you."
"What a strange notion," Garion said.
"I'll tell him many things," Silk went on, talking very rapidly now. His eyes
seemed to glitter, and his nose was actually twitching. "Pay no attention to
what I say, and don't let any surprise show on your face. He'll be watching us
both very closely."
"You're going to lie?" Garion was shocked.
"It's expected," Silk said. "The merchant will also lie. The one of us who lies
the best will get the better of the bargain."
"It all seems terribly involved," Garion said.
"It's a game," Silk said, his ferretlike face breaking into a grin. "A very
exciting game that's played all over the world. Good players get rich, and bad
players don't."
"Are you a good player?" Garion asked.
"One of the best," Silk replied modestly. "Let's go in." And he led Garion up
the broad steps to the merchant's house.
The merchant wore an unbelted, fur-trimmed gown of a pale green color and a
close-fitting cap. He behaved much as Silk had predicted that he would, sitting
before a plain table and leafing through many scraps of parchment with a busy
frown on his face while Silk and Garion waited for him to notice them.
"Very well, then," he said finally. "You have business with me?"
"We have some turnips," Silk said somewhat deprecatingly.
"That's truly unfortunate, friend," the merchant said, assuming a long face.
"The wharves at Kotu groan with turnips just now. It would hardly pay me to take
them off your hands at any price."
Silk shrugged. "Perhaps the Chereks or the Algars then," he said. "Their markets
may not yet be so glutted as yours." He turned. "Come along, boy," he said to
Garion.
"A moment, good friend," the merchant said. "I detect from your speech that you
and I are countrymen. Perhaps as a favor I'll look at your turnips."
"Your time is valuable," Silk said. "If you aren't in the market for turnips,
why should we trouble you further?"
"I might still be able to find a buyer somewhere," the merchant protested, "if
the merchandise is of good quality." He took the bag from Garion and opened it.
Garion listened with fascination as Silk and the merchant fenced politely with
each other, each attempting to gain the advantage.
"What a splendid boy this is," the merchant said, suddenly seeming to notice
Garion for the first time.
"An orphan," Silk said, "placed in my care. I'm attempting to teach him the
rudiments of business, but he's slow to learn."
"Ah," the merchant said, sounding slightly disappointed.
Then Silk made a curious gesture with the fingers of his right hand. The
merchant's eyes widened slightly, then he too gestured.
After that, Garion had no idea of what was going on. The hands of Silk and the
merchant wove intricate designs in the air, sometimes flickering so rapidly that
the eye could scarce follow them. Silk's long, slender fingers seemed to dance,
and the merchant's eyes were fixed upon them, his forehead breaking into a sweat
at the intensity of his concentration.
"Done, then?" Silk said finally, breaking the long silence in the room.
"Done," the merchant agreed somewhat ruefully.
"It's always a pleasure doing business with an honest man," Silk said.
"I've learned much today," the merchant said. "I hope you don't intend to remain
in this business for long, friend. If you do, I might just as well give you the
keys to my warehouse and strongroom right now and save myself the anguish I'll
experience every time you appear."
Silk laughed. "You've been a worthy opponent, friend merchant," he said.
"I thought so at first," the merchant said, shaking his head, "but I'm no match
for you. Deliver your turnips to my warehouse on Bedik wharf tomorrow morning."
He scratched a few lines on a piece of parchment with a quill. "My overseer will
pay you."
Silk bowed and took the parchment. "Come along, boy," he said to Garion, and led
the way from the room.
"What happened?" Garion asked when they were outside in the blustery street.
"We got the price I wanted," Silk said, somewhat smugly.
"But you didn't say anything," Garion objected.
"We spoke at great length, Garion," Silk said. "Weren't you watching?"
"All I saw was the two of you wiggling your fingers at each other."
"That's how we spoke," Silk explained. "It's a separate language my countrymen
devised thousands of years ago. It's called the secret language, and it's much
faster than the spoken one. It also permits us to speak in the presence of
strangers without being overheard. An adept can conduct business while
discussing the weather, if he chooses."
"Will you teach it to me?" Garion asked, fascinated.
"It takes a long time to learn," Silk told him.
"Isn't the trip to Muros likely to take a long time?" Garion suggested.
Silk shrugged. "As you wish," he said. "It won't be easy, but it will help pass
the time, I suppose."
"Are we going back to the inn now?" Garion asked.
"Not right away," Silk said. "We'll need a cargo to explain our entry into
Muros."
"I thought we were going to leave with the wagons empty."
"We are."
"But you just said-"
"We'll see a merchant I know," Silk explained. "He buys farm goods all over
Sendaria and has them held on the farms until the markets are right in Arendia
and Tolnedra. Then he arranges to have them freighted either to Muros or
Camaar."
"It sounds very complicated," Garion said doubtfully.
"1t's not really," Silk assured him. "Come along, my boy, you'll see." The
merchant was a Tolnedran who wore a flowing blue robe and a disdainful
expression on his face. He was talking with a grim-faced Murgo as Silk and
Garion entered his counting room. The Murgo, like all of his race Garion had
ever seen, had deep scars on his face, and his black eyes were penetrating.
Silk touched Garion's shoulder with a cautionary hand when they entered and saw
the Murgo, then he stepped forward. "Forgive me, noble merchant," he said
ingratiatingly. "I didn't know you were occupied. My porter and I will wait
outside until you have time for us."
"My friend and I will be busy for most of the day," the Tolnedran said. "Is it
something important?"
"I was just wondering if you might have a cargo for me," Silk replied.
"No," the Tolnedran said shortly. "Nothing." He started to turn back to the
Murgo, then stopped and looked sharply at Silk. "Aren't you Ambar of Kotu?" he
asked. "I thought you dealt in spices."
Garion recognized the name Silk had given the watchmen at the gates of the city.
It was evident that the little man had used the name before.
"Alas," Silk sighed. "My last venture lies at the bottom of the sea just off the
hook of Arendia - two full shiploads bound for Tol Honeth. A sudden storm and I
am a pauper."
"A tragic tale, worthy Ambar," the Tolnedran master merchant said, somewhat
smugly.
"I'm now reduced to freighting produce," Silk said morosely. "I have three
rickety wagons, and that's all that's left of the empire of Ambar of Kotu."
"Reverses come to us all," the Tolnedran said philosophically.
"So this is the famous Ambar of Kotu," the Murgo said, his harshly accented
voice quite soft. He looked Silk up and down, his black eyes probing. "It was a
fortunate chance that brought me out today. I am enriched by meeting so
illustrious a man."
Silk bowed politely. "You're too kind, noble sir," he said.
"I am Asharak of Rak Goska," the Murgo introduced himself. He turned to the
Tolnedran. "We can put aside our discussion for a bit, Mingan," he said. "We
will accrue much honor by assisting so great a merchant to begin recouping his
losses."
"You're too kind, worthy Asharak," Silk said, bowing again. Garion's mind was
shrieking all kinds of warnings, but the Murgo's sharp eyes made it impossible
for him to make the slightest gesture to Silk. He kept his face impassive and
his eyes dull even as his thoughts raced.
"I would gladly help you, my friend," Mingan said, "but I have no cargo in
Darine at the moment."
"I'm already committed from Darine to Medalia," Silk said quickly. "Three
wagonloads of Cherek iron. And I also have a contract to move furs from Muros to
Camaar. It's the fifty leagues from Medalia to Muros that concerns me. Wagons
traveling empty earn no profit."
"Medalia." Mingan frowned. "Let me examine my records. It seems to me that I do
have something there." He stepped out of the room. "Your exploits are legendary
in the kingdoms of the east, Ambar,"
Asharak of Rak Goska said admiringly. "When last I left Cthol Murgos there was
still a kingly price on your head."
Silk laughed easily. "A minor misunderstanding, Asharak," he said. "I was merely
investigating the extent of Tolnedran intelligence gathering activities in your
kingdom. I took some chances I probably shouldn't have, and the Tolnedrans found
out what I was up to. The charges they leveled at me were fabrications."
"How did you manage to escape?" Asharak asked. "The soldiers of King Taur Urgas
nearly dismantled the kingdom searching for you."
"I chanced to meet a Thullish lady of high station," Silk said. "I managed to
prevail upon her to smuggle me across the border into Mishrak ac Thull."
"Ah," Asharak said, smiling briefly. "Thullish ladies are notoriously easy to
prevail upon."
"But most demanding," Silk said. "They expect full repayment for any favors. I
found it more difficult to escape from her than I did from Cthol Murgos."
"Do you still perform such services for your government?" Asharak asked
casually.
"They won't even talk to me," Silk said with a gloomy expression. "Ambar the
spice merchant is useful to them, but Ambar the poor wagoneer is quite another
thing."
"Of course," Asharak said, and his tone indicated that he obviously did not
believe what he had been told. He glanced briefly and without seeming interest
at Garion, and Garion felt a strange shock of recognition. Without knowing
exactly how it was that he knew, he was instantly sure that Asharak of Rak Goska
had known him for all of his life. There was a familiarity in that glance, a
familiarity that had grown out of the dozen times or more that their eyes had
met while Garion was growing up and Asharak, muffled always in a black cloak and
astride a black horse, had stopped and watched and then moved on. Garion
returned the gaze without expression, and the faintest hint of a smile flickered
across Asharak's scarred face.
Mingan returned to the room then. "I have some hams on a farm near Medalia," he
announced. "When do you expect to arrive in Muros?"
"Fifteen or twenty days," Silk told him.
Mingan nodded. "I'll give you a contract to move my hams to Muros," he offered.
"Seven silver nobles per wagonload."
"Tolnedran nobles or Sendarian?" Silk asked quickly.
"This is Sendaria, worthy Ambar."
"We're citizens of the world, noble merchant," Silk pointed out. "Transactions
between us have always been in Tolnedran coin."
Mingan sighed. "You were ever quick, worthy Ambar," he said."Very well,
Tolnedran nobles - because we are old friends, and I grieve for your
misfortunes."
"Perhaps we'll meet again, Ambar," Asharak said.
"Perhaps," Silk said, and he and Garion left the counting room. "Skinflint,"
Silk muttered when they reached the street. "The rate should have been ten, not
seven."
"What about the Murgo?" Garion asked. Once again there was the familiar
reluctance to reveal too much about the strange, unspoken link that had existed
between him and the figure that now at least had a name.
Silk shrugged.
"He knows I'm up to something, but he doesn't know exactly what just as I know
that he's up to something. I've had dozens of meetings like that. Unless our
purposes happen to collide, we won't interfere with each other. Asharak and I
are both professionals."
"You're a very strange person, Silk," Garion said.
Silk winked at him.
"Why were you and Mingan arguing about the coins?" Garion asked.
"Tolnedran coins are a bit purer," Silk told him. "They're worth more."
"I see," Garion said.
The next morning they all mounted the wagons again and delivered their turnips
to the warehouse of the Drasnian merchant. Then, their wagons rumbling emptily,
they rolled out of Darine, bound toward the south.
The rain had ceased, but the morning was overcast and blustery.
On the hill outside town Silk turned to Garion, who rode beside him.
"Very well," he said,"let's begin." He moved his fingers in front of Garion's
face. "This means `Good morning.' "
Chapter Eight
AFTER THE FIRST DAY the wind blew itself out, and the pale autumn sun
reappeared. Their route southward led them along the Darine River, a turbulent
stream that rushed down from the mountains on its way to the Gulf of Cherek. The
country was hilly and timbered but, since the wagons were empty, their horses
made good time.
Garion paid scant attention to the scenery as they trundled up the valley of the
Darine. His attention was riveted almost totally on Silk's flickering fingers.
"Don't shout," Silk instructed as Garion practiced.
"Shout?" Garion asked, puzzled.
"Keep your gestures small. Don't exaggerate them. The idea is to make the whole
business inconspicuous."
"I'm only practicing," Garion said.
"Better to break bad habits before they become too strong," Silk said. "And be
careful not to mumble."
"Mumble?"
"Form each phrase precisely. Finish one before you go on to the next. Don't
worry about speed. That comes with time."
By the third day their conversations were half in words and half in gestures,
and Garion was beginning to feel quite proud of himself. They pulled off the
road into a grove of tall cedars that evening and formed up their usual half
circle with the wagons.
"How goes the instruction?" Mister Wolf asked as he climbed down.
"It progresses," Silk said. "I expect it will go more rapidly when the boy
outgrows his tendency to use baby talk."
Garion was crushed.
Barak, who was also dismounting, laughed.
"I've often thought that the secret language might be useful to know," he said,
"but fingers built to grip a sword are not nimble enough for it." He held out
his huge hand and shook his head.
Durnik lifted his face and sniffed at the air. "It's going to be cold tonight,"
he said. "We'll have frost before morning."
Barak also sniffed, and then he nodded. "You're right, Durnik," he rumbled.
"We'll need a good fire tonight." He reached into the wagon and lifted out his
axe.
"There are riders coming," Aunt Pol announced, still seated on the wagon.
They all stopped talking and listened to the faint drumming sound on the road
they had just left.
"Three at least," Barak said grimly. He handed the axe to Durnik and reached
back into the wagon for his sword.
"Four," Silk said. He stepped to his own wagon and took his own sword out from
under the seat.
"We're far enough from the road," Wolf said. "If we stay still, they'll pass
without seeing us."
"That won't hide us from Grolims," Aunt Pol said. "They won't be searching with
their eyes." She made two quick gestures to Wolf which Garion did not recognize.
No, Wolf gestured back. Let us instead - He also made an unrecognizable gesture.
Aunt Pol looked at him for a moment and then nodded.
"All of you stay quite still," Wolf instructed them. Then he turned toward the
road, his face intent.
Garion held his breath. The sound of the galloping horses grew nearer.
Then a strange thing happened. Though Garion knew he should be fearful of the
approaching riders and the threat they seemed to pose, a kind of dreamy
lassitude fell over him. It was as if his mind had quite suddenly gone to sleep,
leaving his body still standing there watching incuriously the passage of those
dark-mantled horsemen along the road.
How long he stood so he was not able to say; but when he roused from his half
dream, the riders were gone and the sun had set. The sky to the east had grown
purple with approaching evening, and there were tatters of sun-stained clouds
along the western horizon.
"Murgos," Aunt Pol said quite calmly, "and one Grolim." She started to climb
down from the wagon.
"There are many Murgos in Sendaria, great lady," Silk said, helping her down,
"and on many different missions."
"Murgos are one thing," Wolf said grimly, "but Grolims are quite something else.
I think it might be better if we moved off the welltraveled roads. Do you know a
back way to Medalia?"
"Old friend," Silk replied modestly, "I know a back way to every place."
"Good," Wolf said. "Let's move deeper into these woods. I'd prefer it if no
chance gleam from our fire reached the road."
Garion had seen the cloaked Murgos only briefly. There was no way to be sure if
one of them had been that same Asharak he had finally met after all the years of
knowing him only as a dark figure on a black horse, but somehow he was almost
certain that Asharak had been among them. Asharak would follow him, would be
there wherever he went. It was the kind of thing one could count on.
Durnik had been right when he had spoken of frost. The ground was white with it
the next morning, and the horses' breath steamed in the chill air as they set
out. They moved along lanes and little-used tracks that were partially
weed-choked. The going was slower than it might have been on the main road, but
they all felt much safer.
It took them five more days to reach the village of Winold, some twelve leagues
to the north of Medalia. There, at Aunt Pol's insistence, they stopped overnight
at a somewhat rundown inn. "I refuse to sleep on the ground again," she
announced flatly.
After they had eaten in the dingy common room of the inn, the men turned to
their ale pots, and Aunt Pol went up to her chamber with instructions that hot
water be brought to her for bathing. Garion, however, made some pretext about
checking the horses and went outside. It was not that he was in the habit of
being deliberately deceptive, but it had occurred to him in the last day or so
that he had not had a single moment alone since they had left Faldor's farm. He
was not by nature a solitary boy, but he had begun to feel quite keenly the
restriction of always being in the presence of his elders.
The village of Winold was not a large one, and he explored it from one end to
the other in less than half an hour, loitering along its narrow, cobblestoned
streets in the crispness of the early evening air. The windows of the houses
glowed with golden candlelight, and Garion suddenly felt a great surge of
homesickness.
Then, at the next corner of the crooked street, in the brief light from an
opening door, he saw a familiar figure. He could not be positive, but he shrank
back against a rough stone wall anyway.
The man at the corner turned in irritation toward the light, and Garion caught
the sudden white gleam from one of his eyes. It was Brill. The unkempt man moved
quickly out of the light, obviously not wishing to be seen, then he stopped.
Garion hugged the wall, watching Brill's impatient pacing at the corner. The
wisest thing would have been to slip away and hurry back to the inn, but Garion
quickly dismissed that idea. He was safe enough here in the deep shadow beside
the wall, and he was too caught up by curiosity to leave without seeing exactly
what Brill was doing here.
After what seemed hours, but was really only a few more minutes, another shadowy
shape came scurrying down the street. The man was hooded, so it was impossible
to see his face, but the outline of his form revealed a figure dressed in the
tunic, hose and calf length boots of an ordinary Sendar. There was also, when he
turned, the outline of a sword belted at his waist, and that was far from
ordinary. While it was not precisely illegal for Sendars of the lower classes to
bear arms, it was uncommon enough to attract notice.
Garion tried to edge close enough to hear what Brill said to the man with the
sword, but they spoke only briefly. There was a clink as some coins changed
hands, and then the two separated. Brill moved quietly off around the corner,
and the man with the sword walked up the narrow, crooked street toward the spot
where Garion stood.
There was no place to hide, and as soon as the hooded man came close enough, he
would be able to see Garion. To turn and run would be even more dangerous. Since
there was no alternative, Garion put on a bold front and marched determinedly
toward the oncoming figure.
"Who's there?" the hooded man demanded, his hand going to his sword-hilt.
"Good evening, sir," Garion said, deliberately forcing his voice up into the
squeaky registers of a much younger boy. "Cold night, isn't it?"
The hooded man grunted and seemed to relax.
Garion's legs quivered with the desire to run. He passed the man with the sword,
and his back prickled as he felt that suspicious gaze follow him.
"Boy," the man said abruptly.
Garion stopped.
"Yes, sir?" he said, turning.
"Do you live here?"
"Yes, sir," Garion lied, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
"Is there a tavern hereabouts?"
Garion had just explored the town, and he spoke confidently.
"Yes, sir," he said. "You go on up this street to the next corner and turn to
your left. There are torches out front. You can't miss it."
"My thanks," the hooded man said shortly, and walked on up the narrow street.
"Good night, sir," Garion called after him, made bold by the fact that the
danger seemed past.
The man did not answer, and Garion marched on down to the corner, exhilarated by
his brief encounter. Once he was around the corner, however, he dropped the
guise of a simple village boy and ran.
He was breathless by the time he reached the inn and burst into the smoky common
room where Mister Wolf and the others sat talking by the fire.
At the last instant, realizing that to blurt out his news in the common room
where others might overhear would be a mistake, he forced himself to walk calmly
to where his friends sat. He stood before the fire as if warming himself and
spoke in a low tone. "I just saw Brill in the village," he said.
"Brill?" Silk asked. "Who's Brill?"
Wolf frowned. "A farmhand with too much Angarak gold in his purse to be entirely
honest," he said. Quickly he told Silk and Barak about the adventure in Faldor's
stable.
"You should have killed him," Barak rumbled.
"This isn't Cherek," Wolf said. "Sendars are touchy about casual killings." He
turned to Garion. "Did he see you?" he asked.
"No," Garion said. "I saw him first and hid in the dark. He met another man and
gave him some money, I think. The other man had a sword." Briefly he described
the whole incident.
"This changes things," Wolf said. "I think we'll leave earlier in the morning
than we'd planned."
"It wouldn't be hard to make Brill lose interest in us," Durnik said. "I could
probably find him and hit him on the head a few times."
"Tempting." Wolf grinned. "But I think it might be better just to slip out of
town early tomorrow and leave him with no notion that we've ever been here. We
don't really have time to start fighting with everyone we run across."
"I'd like a closer look at this sword-carrying Sendar, however," Silk said,
rising. "If it turns out that he's following us, I'd rather know what he looks
like. I don't like being followed by strangers."
"Discreetly," Wolf cautioned.
Silk laughed. "Have you ever known me to be otherwise?" he asked. "This won't
take long. Where did you say that tavern was, Garion?"
Garion gave him directions.
Silk nodded, his eyes bright and his long nose twitching. He turned, went
quickly across the smoky common room and out into the chill night.
"I wonder," Barak considered. "If we're being followed this closely, wouldn't it
be better to discard the wagons and this tiresome disguise, buy good horses and
simply make straight for Muros at a gallop?"
Wolf shook his head. "I don't think the Murgos are all that certain where we
are," he said. "Brill could be here for some other dishonesty, and we'd be
foolish to start running from shadows. Better just to move on quietly. Even if
Brill is still working for the Murgos, I'd rather just slip away and leave them
all beating the bushes here in central Sendaria." He stood up. "I'm going to
step upstairs and let Pol know what's happened." He crossed the common room and
mounted the stairs.
"I still don't like it," Barak muttered, his face dark.
They sat quietly then, waiting for Silk's return. The fire popped, and Garion
started slightly. It occurred to him as he waited that he had changed a great
deal since they'd left Faldor's farm. Everything had seemed simple then with the
world neatly divided into friends and enemies. In the short time since they'd
left, however, he'd begun to perceive complexities that he hadn't imagined
before. He'd grown wary and distrustful and listened more frequently to that
interior voice that always advised caution if not outright guile. He'd also
learned not to accept anything at face value. Briefly he regretted the loss of
his former innocence, but the dry voice told him that such regret was childish.
Then Mister Wolf came back down the stairs and rejoined them. After about a half
hour Silk returned. "Thoroughly disreputable-looking fellow," he said, standing
in front of the fire. "My guess is that he's a common footpad."
"Brill's seeking his natural level," Wolf observed. "If he's still working for
the Murgos, he's probably hiring ruffians to watch for us. They'll be looking
for four people on foot, however, rather than six in wagons. If we can get out
of Winold early enough in the morning, I think we can elude them altogether."
"I think Durnik and I should stand watch tonight," Barak said.
"Not a bad idea," Wolf agreed. "Let's plan to leave about the fourth hour after
midnight. I'd like to have two or three leagues of back roads between us and
this place when the sun comes up."
Garion scarcely slept that night; when he did, there were nightmares about a
hooded man with a cruel sword chasing him endlessly down dark, narrow streets.
When Barak woke them, Garion's eyes felt sandy, and his head was thick from the
exhausting night.
Aunt Pol carefully drew the shutters in their chamber before lighting a single
candle. "It's going to be colder now," she said, opening the large bundle she'd
had him carry up from the wagons. She took out a pair of heavy woolen hose and
winter boots lined with lambswool. "Put these on," she instructed Garion, "and
your heavy cloak."
"I'm not a baby any more, Aunt Pol," Garion said.
"Do you enjoy being cold?"
"Well, no, but " He stopped, unable to think of any words to explain how he
felt. He began to dress. He could hear the faint murmur of the others talking
softly in the adjoining chamber in that curious, hushed tone that men always
assume when they rise before the sun.
"We're ready, Mistress Pol," Silk's voice came through the doorway.
"Let's leave then," she said, drawing up the hood of her cloak.
The moon had risen late that night and shone brightly on the frostsilvered
stones outside the inn. Durnik had hitched the horses to the wagons and had led
them out of the stable.
"We'll lead the horses out to the road," Wolf said very quietly. "I see no need
of rousing the villagers as we pass."
Silk again took the lead, and they moved slowly out of the innyard. The fields
beyond the village were white with frost, and the pale, smoky-looking moonlight
seemed to have leeched all color from them.
"As soon as we're well out of earshot," Wolf said, climbing up into his wagon,
"let's put some significant distance between us and this place. The wagons are
empty, and a little run won't hurt the horses."
"Truly," Silk agreed.
They all mounted their wagons and set off at a walk. The stars glittered
overhead in the crisp, cold sky. The fields were very white in the moonlight,
and the clumps of trees back from the road very dark.
Just as they went over the first hilltop, Garion looked back at the dark cluster
of houses in the valley behind. A single flicker of light came from a window
somewhere, a lone, golden pinpoint that appeared and then vanished.
"Someone's awake back there," he told Silk. "I just saw a light."
"Some early riser perhaps," Silk suggested. "But then again, perhaps not." He
shook the reins slightly, and the horses increased their pace. He shook them
again, and they began to trot.
"Hang on, boy," he instructed, reached forward and slapped the reins down
smartly on the rumps of the horses.
The wagon bounced and clattered fearfully behind the running team, and the
bitterly chill air rushed at Garion's face as he clung to the wagon seat.
At full gallop the three wagons plunged down into the next valley, rushing
between the frost-white fields in the bright moonlight, leaving the village and
its single light far behind.
By the time the sun rose, they had covered a good four leagues, and Silk reined
in his steaming horses. Garion felt battered and sore from the wild ride over
the iron-hard roads and was glad for the chance to rest. Silk handed him the
reins and jumped down from the wagon. He walked back and spoke briefly to Mister
Wolf and Aunt Pol, then returned to the wagon.
"We turn off at that lane just ahead," he told Garion as he massaged his
fingers.
Garion offered him the reins.
"You drive," Silk told him. "My hands are frozen stiff. Just let the horses
walk."
Garion clucked at the horses and shook the reins slightly. Obediently, the team
started out again.
"The lane circles around to the back of that hill," Silk said, pointing with his
chin since his hands were tucked inside his tunic. "On the far side there's a
copse of fir trees. We'll stop there to rest the horses."
"Do you think we're being followed?" Garion asked.
"This'll be a good time to find out," Silk said.
They rounded the hill and drove on down to where the dark firs bordered the
road. Then Garion turned the horses and moved in under the shadowy trees.
"This will do fine," Silk said, getting down. "Come along."
"Where are we going?"
"I want to have a look at that road behind us," Silk said. "We'll go up through
the trees to the top of the hill and see if our back trail has attracted any
interest."
And he started up the hill, moving quite rapidly but making absolutely no sound
as he went. Garion floundered along behind him, his feet cracking the dead twigs
underfoot embarrassingly until he began to catch the secret of it. Silk nodded
approvingly once, but said nothing.
The trees ended just at the crest of the hill, and Silk stopped there. The
valley below with the dark road passing through it was empty except for two deer
who had come out of the woods on the far side to graze in the frosty grass.
"We'll wait a while," Silk said. "If Brill and his hireling are following, they
shouldn't be far behind."
He sat on a stump and watched the empty valley.
After a while, a cart moved slowly along the road toward Winold. It looked tiny
in the distance, and its pace along the scar of the road seemed very slow.
The sun rose a bit higher, and they squinted into its full morning brightness.
"Silk," Garion said finally in a hesitant tone.
"Yes, Garion?"
"What's this all about?" It was a bold question to ask, but Garion felt he knew
Silk well enough now to ask it.
"All what?"
"What we're doing. I've heard a few things and guessed a few more, but it
doesn't really make any sense to me."
"And just what have you guessed, Garion?" Silk asked, his small eyes very bright
in his unshaven face.
"Something's been stolen-something very important - and Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol
- and the rest of us - are trying to get it back."
"All right," Silk said. "That much is true."
"Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol are not at all what they seem to be," Garion went on.
"No," Silk agreed, "they aren't."
"I think they can do things that other people can't do," Garion said, struggling
with the words. "Mister Wolf can follow this thing - whatever it is - without
seeing it. And last week in those woods when the Murgos passed, they did
something - I don't even know how to describe it, but it was almost as if they
reached out and put my mind to sleep. How did they do that? And why?"
Silk chuckled.
"You're a very observant lad," he said. Then his tone became more serious.
"We're living in momentous times, Garion. The events of a thousand years and
more have all focused on these very days. The world, I'm told, is like that.
Centuries pass when nothing happens, and then in a few short years events of
such tremendous importance take place that the world is never the same again."
"I think that if I had my choice, I'd prefer one of those quiet centuries,"
Garion said glumly.
"Oh, no," Silk said, his lips drawing back in a ferretlike grin. "Now's the time
to be alive - to see it all happen, to be a part of it. That makes the blood
race, and each breath is an adventure."
Garion let that pass.
"What is this thing we're following?" he asked.
"It's best if you don't even know its name," Silk told him seriously, "or the
name of the one who stole it. There are people trying to stop us; and what you
don't know, you can't reveal."
"I'm not in the habit of talking to Murgos," Garion said stiffly.
"It's not necessary to talk to them," Silk said. "There are some among them who
can reach out and pick the thoughts right out of your mind."
"That isn't possible," Garion said.
"Who's to say what's possible and what isn't?" Silk asked. And Garion remembered
a conversation he had once had with Mister Wolf about the possible and the
impossible.
Silk sat on the stump in the newly risen sun looking thoughtfully down into the
still-shadowy valley, an ordinary-looking little man in ordinary-looking tunic
and hose and a rough brown shoulder cape with its hood turned up over his head.
"You were raised as a Sendar, Garion," he said, "and Sendars are solid,
practical men with little patience for such things as sorcery and magic and
other things that can't be seen or touched. Your friend, Durnik, is a perfect
Sendar. He can mend a shoe or fix a broken wheel or dose a sick horse, but I
doubt that he could bring himself to believe in the tiniest bit of magic."
"I am a Sendar," Garion objected. The hint implicit in Silk's observation struck
at the very center of his sense of his own identity.
Silk turned and looked at him closely.
"No," he said, "you aren't. I know a Sendar when I see one just as I can
recognize the difference between an Arend and a Tolnedran or a Cherek and an
Algar. There's a certain set of the head, a certain look about the eyes of
Sendars that you don't have. You're not a Sendar."
"What am I then?" Garion challenged.
"I don't know," Silk said with a puzzled frown, "and that's very unusual, since
I've been trained to know what people are. It may come to me in time, though."
"Is Aunt Pol a Sendar?" Garion asked.
"Of course not." Silk laughed.
"That explains it then," Garion said. "I'm probably the same thing she is."
Silk looked sharply at him.
"She's my father's sister, after all," Garion said. "At first I thought it was
my mother she was related to, but that was wrong. It was my father; I know that
now."
"That's impossible," Silk said flatly.
"Impossible?"
"Absolutely out of the question. The whole notion's unthinkable."
"Why?"
Silk chewed at his lower lip for a moment. "Let's go back to the wagons," he
said shortly.
They turned and went down through the dark trees with the bright morning
sunlight slanting on their backs in the frosty air.
They rode the back lanes for the rest of the day. Late in the afternoon when the
sun had begun to drop into a purple bank of clouds toward the west, they arrived
at the farm where they were to pick up Mingan's hams. Silk spoke with the stout
farmer and showed him the piece of parchment Mingan had given them in Darine.
"I'll be glad to get rid of them," the farmer said. "They've been occupying
storage space I sorely need."
"That's frequently the case when one has dealings with Tolnedrans," Silk
observed. "They're gifted at getting a bit more than they pay foreven if it's
only the free use of someone else's storage sheds."
The farmer glumly agreed.
"I wonder," Silk said as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I wonder if
you might have seen a friend of mine - Brill by name? A medium-sized man with
black hair and beard and a cast to one eye?"
"Patched clothes and a sour disposition?" the stout farmer asked.
"That's him," Silk said.
"He's been about the area," the farmer said, "looking - or so he said - for an
old man and a woman and a boy. He said that they stole some things from his
master and that he'd been sent to find them."
"How long ago was that?" Silk asked.
"A week or so," the farmer said.
"I'm sorry to have missed him," Silk said. "I wish I had the leisure to look him
up."
"I can't for my life think why," the farmer said bluntly. "To be honest with
you, I didn't care much for your friend."
"I'm not overfond of him myself," Silk agreed, "but the truth is that he owes me
some money. I could quite easily do without Brill's companionship, but I'm
lonesome for the money, if you take my meaning."
The farmer laughed.
"I'd take it as a kindness if you happened to forget that I asked after him,"
Silk said. "He'll likely be hard enough to find even if he isn't warned that I'm
looking for him."
"You can depend on my discretion," the stout man said, still laughing. "I have a
loft where you and your wagoneers can put up for the night, and I'd take it
kindly if you'd sup with my workers in the dining hall over there."
"My thanks," Silk said, bowing slightly. "The ground's cold, and it's been some
time since we've eaten anything but the rough fare of the road."
"You wagoneers lead adventuresome lives," the stout man said almost enviously.
"Free as birds with always a new horizon just beyond the next hilltop."
"It's much overrated," Silk told him, "and winter's a thin time for birds and
wagoneers both."
The farmer laughed again, clapped Silk on the shoulder and then showed him where
to put up the horses.
The food in the stout farmer's dining hall was plain, but there was plenty; and
the loft was a bit drafty, but the hay was soft. Garion slept soundly. The farm
was not Faldor's, but it was familiar enough, and there was that comforting
sense of having walls about him again that made him feel secure.
The following morning, after a solid breakfast, they loaded the wagons with the
Tolnedran's salt-crusted hams and bade the farmer a friendly good-bye.
The clouds that had begun to bank up in the west the evening before had covered
the sky during the night, and it was cold and gray as they set out for Muros,
fifty leagues to the south.
Chapter Nine
THE ALMOST TWO WEEKS it took them to reach Muros were the most uncomfortable
Garion had ever spent. Their route skirted the edge of the foothills through
rolling and sparsely settled country, and the sky hung gray and cold overhead.
There were occasional spits of snow, and the mountains loomed black against the
skyline to the east.
It seemed to Garion that he would never be warm again. Despite Durnik's best
efforts to find dry firewood each night, their fires always seemed pitifully
small, and the great cold around them enormously large. The ground upon which
they slept was always frozen, and the chill seemed actually to seep into
Garion's bones.
His education in the Drasnian secret language continued and he became, if not
adept, at least competent by the time they passed Lake Camaar and began the
long, downhill grade that led to Muros.
The city of Muros in south-central Sendaria was a sprawling, unattractive place
that had been since time immemorial the site of a great annual fair. Each year
in late summer, Algar horsemen drove vast cattle herds through the mountains
along the Great North Road to Muros where cattle buyers from all over the west
gathered to await their coming. Huge sums changed hands, and, because the Algar
clansmen also commonly made their yearly purchases of useful and ornamental
articles at that time, merchants from as far away as Nyissa in the remote south
gathered to offer their wares. A large plain which lay to the east of the city
was given over entirely to the cattle pens that stretched for miles but were
still inadequate to contain the herds which arrived at the height of the season.
Beyond the pens to the east lay the more or less permanent encampment of the
Algars.
It was to this city one midmorning at the tag end of the fair, when the cattle
pens were nearly empty and most of the Algars had departed and only the most
desperate merchants remained, that Silk led the three wagons laden with the hams
of Mingan the Tolnedran.
The delivery of the hams took place without incident, and the wagons soon drew
into an innyard near the northern outskirts of the city.
"This is a respectable inn, great lady," Silk assured Aunt Pol as he helped her
down from the wagon. "I've stopped here before."
"Let's hope so," she said. "The inns of Muros have an unsavory reputation."
"Those particular inns lie along the eastern edge of town," Silk assured her
delicately. "I know them well."
"I'm certain you do," she said with an arched eyebrow.
"My profession sometimes requires me to seek out places I might otherwise prefer
to avoid," he said blandly.
The inn, Garion noted, was surprisingly clean, and its guests seemed for the
most part to be Sendarian merchants.
"I thought there'd be many different kinds of people here in Muros," he said as
he and Silk carried their bundles up to the chambers on the second floor.
"There are," Silk said, "but each group tends to remain aloof from the others.
The Tolnedrans gather in one part of town, the Drasnians in another, the
Nyissans in yet another. The Earl of Muros prefers it that way. Tempers
sometimes flare in the heat of the day's business, and it's best not to have
natural enemies housed under the same roof."
Garion nodded. "You know," he said as they entered the chambers they had taken
for their stay in Muros, "I don't think I've ever seen a Nyissan."
"You're lucky," Silk said with distaste. "They're an unpleasant race."
"Are they like Murgos?"
"No," Silk said. "The Nyissans worship Issa, the Snake-God, and it's considered
seemly among them to adopt the mannerisms of the serpent. I don't find it at all
that attractive myself. Besides, the Nyissans murdered the Rivan King, and all
Alorns have disliked them since then."
"The Rivans don't have a king," Garion objected.
"Not anymore," Silk said. "They did once, though - until Queen Salmissra decided
to have him murdered."
"When was that?" Garion asked, fascinated.
"Thirteen hundred years ago," Silk said, as if it had only been yesterday.
"Isn't that sort of a long time to hold a grudge?" Garion asked.
"Some things are unforgivable," Silk said shortly.
Since there was still a good part of the day left, Silk and Wolf left the inn
that afternoon to search the streets of Muros for those strange, lingering
traces that Wolf could apparently see or feel and which would tell him whether
the object they sought had passed this way. Garion sat near the fire in the
chamber he shared with Aunt Pol, trying to bake the chill out of his feet. Aunt
Pol also sat by the fire, mending one of his tunics, her shining needle
flickering in and out of the fabric.
"Who was the Rivan King, Aunt Pol?" he asked her. She stopped sewing.
"Why do you ask?" she said.
"Silk was telling me about Nyissans," he said. "He told me that their queen
murdered the Rivan King. Why would she do that?"
"You're full of questions today, aren't you?" she asked, her needle moving
again.
"Silk and I talk about a lot of things as we ride along," Garion said, pushing
his feet even closer to the fire.
"Don't burn your shoes," she told him.
"Silk says that I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He says that he doesn't know
what I am, but that I'm not a Sendar."
"Silk talks too much," Aunt Pol observed.
"You never tell me anything, Aunt Pol," he said in irritation.
"I tell you everything you need to know," she said calmly. "Right now it's not
necessary for you to know anything about Rivan kings or Nyissan queens."
"All you want to do is keep me an ignorant child," Garion said petulantly. "I'm
almost a man, and I don't even know what I am - or who."
"I know who you are," she said, not looking up.
"Who am I then?"
"You're a young man who's about to catch his shoes on fire," she said.
He jerked his feet back quickly.
"You didn't answer me," he accused.
"That's right," she said in that same infuriatingly calm voice.
"Why not?"
"It's not necessary for you to know yet. When it's time, I'll tell you, but not
until."
"That's not fair," he objected.
"The world's full of injustice," she said. "Now, since you're feeling so manly,
why don't you fetch some more firewood? That'll give you something useful to
think about."
He glared at her and stamped across the room.
"Garion," she said.
"What?"
"Don't even think about slamming the door."
That evening when Wolf and Silk returned, the usually cheerful old man seemed
impatient and irritable. He sat down at the table in the common room of the inn
and stared moodily at the fire. "I don't think it
passed this way," he said finally. "There are a few places left to try, but I'm
almost certain that it hasn't been here."
"Then we go on to Camaar?" Barak rumbled, his thick fingers combing his
bristling beard.
"We must," Wolf said. "Most likely we should have gone there first."
"There was no way to know," Aunt Pol told him. "Why would he go to Camaar if
he's trying to carry it to the Angarak kingdoms?"
"I can't even be certain where he's going," Wolf said irritably. "Maybe he wants
to keep the thing for himself. He's always coveted it." He stared into the fire
again.
"We're going to need some kind of cargo for the trip to Camaar," Silk said.
Wolf shook his head. "It slows us too much," he said. "It's not unusual for
wagons to return to Camaar from Muros without cargo, and it's reaching the point
where we'll have to gamble our disguise for the sake of speed. It's forty
leagues to Camaar, and the weather's turning bad. A heavy snowstorm could stop
the wagons entirely, and I don't have time to spend the whole winter mired down
in a snowbank."
Durnik dropped his knife suddenly and started to scramble to his feet.
"What's amiss?" Barak asked quickly.
"I just saw Brill," Durnik said. "He was in that doorway."
"Are you sure?" Wolf demanded.
"I know him," Durnik said grimly. "It was Brill, all right."
Silk pounded his fist down on the table.
"Idiot!" he accused himself. "I underestimated the man."
"That doesn't matter now," Mister Wolf said, and there was almost a kind of
relief in his voice. "Our disguise is useless now. I think it's time for speed."
"I'll see to the wagons," Durnik said.
"No," Wolf said. "The wagons are too slow. We'll go to the camp of the Algars
and buy good horses." He stood up quickly.
"What of the wagons?" Durnik persisted.
"Forget them," Wolf said. "They're only a hindrance now. We'll ride the wagon
horses to the camp of the Algars and take only what we can conveniently carry.
Let's get ready to leave immediately. Meet me in the innyard as soon as you
can." He went quickly to the door and out into the cold night.
It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in
the cobblestoned innyard, each carrying a small bundle. Hulking Barak jingled as
he walked, and Garion could smell the oiled steel of his mail shirt. A few Bakes
of snow drifted down through the frosty air and settled like tiny feathers to
the frozen ground.
Durnik was the last to join them. He came breathlessly out of the inn and
pressed a small handful of coins upon Mister Wolf.
"It was the best I could do," he apologized. "It's scarce half the worth of the
wagons, but the innkeeper sensed my haste and bargained meanly." He shrugged
then. "At least we're rid of them," he said. "It's not good to leave things of
value behind. They nag at the mind and distract one from the business at hand."
Silk laughed. "Durnik," he said, "you're the absolute soul of a Sendar."
"One must follow one's nature," Durnik said.
"Thank you, my friend," Wolf said gravely, dropping the coins in his purse.
"Let's lead the horses," he went on. "Galloping through these narrow streets at
night would only attract attention."
"I'll lead," Barak announced, drawing his sword. "If there's any trouble, I'm
best equipped to deal with it."
"I'll walk along beside you, friend Barak;" Durnik said, hefting a stout cudgel
of firewood.
Barak nodded, his eyes grimly bright, and led his horse out through the gate
with Durnik closely at his side.
Taking his lead from Durnik, Garion paused momentarily as he passed the woodpile
and selected a good oak stick. It had a comforting weight, and he swung it a few
times to get the feel of it. Then he saw Aunt Pol watching him, and he hurried
on without any further display.
The streets through which they passed were narrow and dark, and the snow had
begun to fall a bit more heavily now, settling almost lazily through the dead
calm air. The horses, made skittish by the snow, seemed to be fearful and
crowded close to those who led them.
When the attack came, it was unexpected and swift. There was a sudden rush of
footsteps and a sharp ring of steel on steel as Barak fended off the first blow
with his sword.
Garion could see only shadowy figures outlined against the falling snow, and
then, as once before when in his boyhood he had struck down his friend Rundorig
in mock battle, his ears began to ring; his blood surged boilingly in his veins
as he leaped into the fight, ignoring the single cry from Aunt Pol.
He received a smart rap on the shoulder, whirled and struck with his stick. He
was rewarded with a muffled grunt. He struck again - and then again, swinging
his club at those parts of his shadowy enemy which he instinctively knew were
most sensitive.
The main fight, however, surged around Barak and Durnik. The ring of Barak's
sword and the thump of Durnik's cudgel resounded in the narrow street along with
the groans of their assailants.
"There's the boy!" a voice rang out from behind them, and Garion whirled. Two
men were running down the street toward him, one with a sword and the other with
a wicked-looking curved knife. Knowing it was hopeless, Garion raised his club,
but Silk was there. The small man launched himself from the shadows directly at
the feet of the two, and all three crashed to the street in a tangle of arms and
legs. Silk rolled to his feet like a cat, spun and kicked one of the floundering
men solidly just below the ear. The man sank twitching to the cobblestones. The
other scrambled away and half rose just in time to receive both of Silk's heels
in his face as the rat-faced Drasnian leaped into the air, twisted and struck
with both legs. Then Silk turned almost casually.
"Are you all right?" he asked Garion.
"I'm fine," Garion said. "You're awfully good at this kind of thing."
"I'm an acrobat," Silk said. "It's simple once you know how."
"They're getting away," Garion told him.
Silk turned, but the two he had just put down were dragging themselves into a
dark alley.
There was a triumphant shout from Barak, and Garion saw that the rest of the
attackers were fleeing.
At the end of the street in the snow-speckled light from a small window was
Brill, almost dancing with fury. "Cowards!" he shouted at his hirelings.
"Cowards!" And then Barak started for him, and he too turned and ran.
"Are you all right, Aunt Pol?" Garion said, crossing the street to where she
stood.
"Of course I am," she snapped. "And don't do that again, young man. Leave street
brawling to those better suited for it."
"I was all right," he objected. "I had my stick here."
"Don't argue with me," she said. "I didn't go to all the trouble of raising you
to have you end up dead in a gutter."
"Is everyone all right?" Durnik asked anxiously, coming back to them.
"Of course we are," Aunt Pol snapped peevishly. "Why don't you see if you can
help the Old Wolf with the horses?"
"Certainly, Mistress Pol," Durnik said mildly.
"A splendid little fight," Barak said, wiping his sword as he joined them. "Not
much blood, but satisfying all the same."
"I'm delighted you found it so," Aunt Pol said acidly. "I don't much care for
such encounters. Did they leave anyone behind?"
"Regrettably no, dear lady," Barak said. "The quarters were too narrow for good
strokes, and these stones too slippery for good footing. I marked a couple of
them quite well, however. We managed to break a few bones and dent a head or
two. As a group, they were much better at running than at fighting."
Silk came back from the alley where he had pursued the two who had tried to
attack Garion. His eyes were bright, and his grin was vicious.
"Invigorating," he said, and then laughed for no apparent reason.
Wolf and Durnik had managed to calm their wild-eyed horses and led them back to
where Garion and the others stood.
"Is anyone hurt?" Wolf demanded.
"We're all intact," Barak rumbled. "The business was hardly worth drawing a
sword for."
Garion's mind was racing; in his excitement, he spoke without stopping to
consider the fact that it might be wiser to think the whole thing through first.
"How did Brill know we were in Muros?" he asked.
Silk looked at him sharply, his eyes narrowing.
"Perhaps he followed us from Winold," he said.
"But we stopped and looked back," Garion said. "He wasn't following when we
left, and we've kept a watch behind us every day."
Silk frowned.
"Go on, Garion," he said.
"I think he knew where we were going," Garion blurted, struggling against a
strange compulsion not to speak what his mind saw clearly now.
"And what else do you think?" Wolf asked.
"Somebody told him," Garion said. "Somebody who knew we were coming here."
"Mingan knew," Silk said, "but Mingan's a merchant, and he wouldn't talk about
his dealings to somebody like Brill."
"But Asharak the Murgo was in Mingan's counting room when Mingan hired us." The
compulsion was so strong now that Garion's tongue felt stiff.
Silk shrugged.
"Why should it concern him? Asharak didn't know who we were."
"But what if he did?" Garion struggled. "What if he isn't just an ordinary
Murgo, but one of those others - like the one who was with those ones who passed
us a couple days after we left Darine?"
"A Grolim?" Silk said, and his eyes widened. "Yes, I suppose that if Asharak is
a Grolim, he'd have known who we are and what we're doing."
"And what if the Grolim who passed us that day was Asharak?" Garion fought to
say. "What if he wasn't really looking for us, but just coming south to find
Brill and send him here to wait for us?"
Silk looked very hard at Garion.
"Very good," he said softly. "Very, very good." He glanced at Aunt Pol. "My
compliments, Mistress Pol. You've raised a rare boy here."
"What did this Asharak look like?" Wolf asked quickly.
"A Murgo." Silk shrugged. "He said he was from Rak Goska. I took him to be an
ordinary spy on some business that didn't concern us. My mind seems to have gone
to sleep."
"It happens when one deals with Grolims," Wolf told him.
"Someone's watching us," Durnik said quietly, "from that window up there."
Garion looked up quickly and saw a dark shape at a second-story window outlined
by a dim light. The shape was hauntingly familiar. Mister Wolf did not look up,
but his face turned blank as if he were looking inward, or his mind were
searching for something. Then he drew himself up and looked at the figure in the
window, his eyes blazing. "A Grolim," he said shortly.
"A dead one perhaps," Silk said. He reached inside his tunic and drew out a
long, needle-pointed dirk. He took two quick steps away from the house where the
Grolim stood watching, spun and threw the dirk with a smooth, overhand cast.
The dirk crashed through the window. There was a muffled shout, and the light
went out. Garion felt a strange pang in his left arm.
"Marked him," Silk said with a grin.
"Good throw," Barak said admiringly.
"One has picked up certain skills," Silk said modestly. "If it was Asharak, I
owed him that for deceiving me in Mingan's counting room."
"At least it'll give him something to think about," Wolf said. "There's no point
in trying to creep through town now. They know we're here. Let's mount and
ride." He climbed onto his horse and led the way down the street at a quick
walk.
The compulsion was gone now, and Garion wanted to tell them about Asharak, but
there was no chance for that as they rode.
Once they reached the outskirts of the city, they nudged their horses into a
fast canter. The snow was falling more seriously now, and the hoof churned
ground in the vast cattle pens was already faintly dusted with white.
"It's going to be a cold night," Silk shouted as they rode.
"We could always go back to Muros," Barak suggested. "Another scuffle or two
might warm your blood."
Silk laughed and put his heels to his horse again.
The encampment of the Algars was three leagues to the east of Muros. It was a
large area surrounded by a stout palisade of poles set in the ground. The snow
by now was falling thickly enough to make the camp look hazy and indistinct. The
gate, flanked by hissing torches, was guarded by two fierce-looking warriors in
leather leggings, snow-dusted jerkins of the same material, and pot-shaped steel
helmets. The points of their lances glittered in the torchlight.
"Halt," one of the warriors commanded, leveling his lance at Mister Wolf. "What
business have you here at this time of night?"
"I have urgent need of speaking with your herd master," Wolf replied politely.
"May I step down?"
The two guards spoke together briefly.
"You may come down," one of them said. "Your companions, however, must withdraw
somewhat - but not beyond the light."
"Algars!" Silk muttered under his breath. "Always suspicious."
Mister Wolf climbed down from his horse, and, throwing back his hood, approached
the two guards through the snow.
Then a strange thing happened. The elder of the two guards stared at Mister
Wolf, taking in his silver hair and beard. His eyes suddenly opened very wide.
He quickly muttered something to his companion, and the two men bowed deeply to
Wolf.
"There isn't time for that," Wolf said in annoyance. "Convey me to your herd
master."
"At once, Ancient One," the elder guard said quickly and hurried to open the
gate.
"What was that about?" Garion whispered to Aunt Pol.
"Algars are superstitious," she said shortly. "Don't ask so many questions."
They waited with snow settling down upon them and melting on their horses. After
about a half hour, the gate opened again and two dozen mounted Algars, fierce in
their rivet-studded leather vests and steel helmets, herded six saddled horses
out into the snow.
Behind them Mister Wolf walked, accompanied by a tall man with his head shaved
except for a flowing scalp lock.
"You have honored our camp by your visit, Ancient One," the tall man was saying,
"and I wish you all speed on your journey."
"I have little fear of being delayed with Algar horses under us," Wolf replied.
"My riders will accompany you along a route they know which will put you on the
far side of Muros within a few hours," the tall man said. "They will then linger
for a time to be certain you are not followed."
"I cannot express my gratitude, noble herd master," Wolf said, bowing.
"It is I who am grateful for the opportunity to be of service," the herd master
said, also bowing.
The change to their new horses took only a minute. With half of their contingent
of Algars leading and the other half bringing up the rear, they turned and rode
back toward the west through the dark, snowy night.
Chapter Ten
GRADUALLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, the darkness became paler as the softly falling
snow made indistinct even the arrival of morning. Their seemingly inexhaustible
horses pounded on through the growing light, the sound of their hooves muffled
by the snow now lying fetlock-deep on the broad surface of the Great North Road.
Garion glanced back once and saw the jumbled tracks of their passage stretching
behind them and, already at the hazy gray limit of his vision, beginning to fill
with concealing snow.
When it was fully light, Mister Wolf reined in his steaming horse and proceeded
at a walk for a time.
"How far have we come?" he asked Silk.
The weasel-faced man who had been shaking the snow out of the folds of his cloak
looked around, trying to pick out a landmark in the misty veil of dropping
flakes.
"Ten leagues," he said finally. "Perhaps a bit more."
"This is a miserable way to travel," Barak rumbled, wincing slightly as he
shifted his bulk in the saddle.
"Think of how your horse must feel." Silk grinned at him.
"How far is it to Camaar?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Forty leagues from Muros," Silk told her.
"We'll need shelter then," she said. "We can't gallop forty leagues without
rest, no matter who's behind us."
"I don't think we need to worry about pursuit just now," Wolf said. "The Algars
will detain Brill and his hirelings or even Asharak if they try to follow us."
"At least there's something Algars are good for," Silk said dryly.
"If I remember correctly, there should be an imperial hostel about five leagues
farther to the west," Wolf said. "We ought to reach it by noon."
"Will we be allowed to stay there?" Durnik asked doubtfully. "I've never heard
that Tolnedrans are noted for hospitality."
"Tolnedrans will sell anything for a price," Silk said. "The hostel would be a
good place to stop. Even if Brill or Asharak should evade the Algars and follow
us there, the legionnaires won't permit any foolishness within their walls."
"Why should there be Tolnedran soldiers in Sendaria?" Garion asked, feeling a
brief surge of patriotic resentment at the thought.
"Wherever the great roads are, you'll find the legions," Silk said. "Tolnedrans
are even better at writing treaties than they are at giving short weight to
their customers."
Mister Wolf chuckled. "You're inconsistent, Silk," he said. "You don't object to
their highways, but you dislike their legions. You can't have the one without
the other."
"I've never pretended to be consistent," the sharp-nosed man said airily. "If we
want to reach the questionable comfort of the imperial hostel by noon, hadn't we
better move along? I wouldn't want to deny His Imperial Majesty the opportunity
to pick my pocket."
"All right," Wolf said, "let's ride." And he put his heels to the flanks of the
Algar horse which had already begun to prance impatiently under him.
The hostel, when they reached it in the full light of snowy noon, proved to be a
series of stout buildings surrounded by an even stouter wall. The legionnaires
who manned it were not the same sort of men as the Tolnedran merchants Garion
had seen before. Unlike the oily men of commerce, these were hard-faced
professional fighting men in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets. They
carried themselves proudly, even arrogantly, each bearing the knowledge that the
might of all Tolnedra was behind him.
The food in the dining hall was plain and wholesome, but dreadfully expensive.
The tiny sleeping cubicles were scrupulously clean, with hard, narrow beds and
thick woolen blankets, and were also expensive. The stables were neat, and they
too reached deeply into Mister Wolf's purse. Garion wondered at the thought of
how much their lodging was costing, but Wolf paid for it all with seeming
indifference as if his purse were bottomless.
"We'll rest here until tomorrow," the white-bearded old man announced when they
had finished eating. "Maybe it will snow itself out by morning. I'm not happy
with all this plunging blindly through a snowstorm. Too many things can hide in
our path in such weather."
Garion, who by now was numb with exhaustion, heard these words gratefully as he
half drowsed at the table. The others sat talking quietly, but he was too tired
to listen to what they said.
"Garion," Aunt Pol said finally, "why don't you go to bed?"
"I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he said, rousing himself quickly, mortified once more
at being treated like a child.
"Now, Garion," she said in that infuriating tone he knew so well. It seemed that
all his life she had been saying "Now, Garion," to him. But he knew better than
to argue.
He stood up and was surprised to feel that his legs were trembling. Aunt Pol
also rose and led him from the dining hall.
"I can find my way by myself," he objected.
"Of course," she said. "Now come along."
After he had crawled into bed in his cubicle, she pulled his blankets up firmly
around his neck. "Stay covered," she told him. "I don't want you taking cold."
She laid her cool hand briefly on his forehead as she had done when he was a
small child.
"Aunt Pol?" he asked drowsily.
"Yes, Garion?"
"Who were my parents? I mean, what were their names?"
She looked at him gravely. "We can talk about that later," she said.
"I want to know," he said stubbornly.
"All right. Your father's name was Geran; your mother's was Ildera."
Garion thought about that.
"The names don't sound Sendarian," he said finally.
"They're not," Aunt Pol said.
"Why was that?"
"It's a very long story," she said, "and you're much too tired to hear it just
now."
On a sudden impulse he reached out and touched the white lock at her brow with
the mark on the palm of his right hand. As had some times happened before, a
window seemed to open in his mind at the tingling touch, but this time that
window opened on something much more serious. There was anger, and a single
face-a face that was strangely like Mister Wolf's, but was not his face, and all
the towering fury in the world was directed at that face.
Aunt Pol moved her head away. "I've asked you not to do that, Garion," she said,
her tone very matter-of fact. "You're not ready for it yet.
"You're going to have to tell me what it is someday," he said.
"Perhaps," she said, "but not now. Close your eyes and go to sleep."
And then, as if that command had somehow dissolved his will, he fell immediately
into a deep, untroubled sleep.
By the next morning it had stopped snowing. The world outside the walls of the
imperial hostel was mantled in thick, unbroken white, and the air was filmy with
a kind of damp haze that was almost-but not quite-fog.
"Misty Sendaria," Silk said ironically at breakfast. "Sometimes I'm amazed that
the entire kingdom doesn't rust shut."
They traveled all that day at a mile-eating canter, and that night there was
another imperial hostel, almost identical to the one they had left that morning
- so closely identical in fact that it almost seemed to Garion that they had
ridden all day and merely arrived back where they had started. He commented on
that to Silk as they were putting their horses in the stable.
"Tolnedrans are nothing if not predictable," Silk said. "All their hostels are
exactly the same. You can find these same buildings in Drasnia, Algaria, Arendia
and any place else their great roads go. It's their one weakness - this lack of
imagination."
"Don't they get tired of doing the same thing over and over again?"
"It makes them feel comfortable, I guess." Silk laughed. "Let's go see about
supper."
It snowed again the following day, but by noon Garion caught a scent other than
that faintly dusty odor snow always seemed to have. Even as he had done when
they had approached Darine, he began to smell the sea, and he knew their journey
was almost at an end.
Camaar, the largest city in Sendaria and the major seaport of the north, was a
sprawling place which had existed at the mouth of the Greater Camaar River since
antiquity. It was the natural western terminus of the Great North Road which
stretched to Boktor in Drasnia and the equally natural northern end of the Great
West Road which reached down across Arendia into Tolnedra and the imperial
capital at Tol Honeth. With some accuracy it could be said that all roads ended
at Camaar.
Late on a chill, snowy afternoon, they rode down a gradual hill toward the city.
Some distance from the gate, Aunt Pol stopped her horse. "Since we're no longer
posing as vagabonds," she announced, "I see no further need for selecting the
most disreputable inns, do you?"
"I hadn't really thought about it," Mister Wolf said.
"Well, I have," she said. "I've had more than enough of wayside hostels and
seedy village inns. I need a bath, a clean bed and some decent food. If you
don't mind, I'll choose our lodging this time."
"Of course, Pol," Wolf said mildly. "Whatever you say."
"Very well, then," she said and rode on toward the city gate with the rest of
them trailing behind her.
"What is your business in Camaar?" one of the fur-mantled guards at the broad
gate asked rather rudely.
Aunt Pol threw back her hood and fixed the man with a steely gaze. "I am the
Duchess of Erat," she announced in ringing tones. "These are my retainers, and
my business in Camaar is my own affair."
The guard blinked and then bowed respectfully.
"Forgive me, your Grace," he said. "I didn't intend to give offense."
"Indeed?" Aunt Pol said, her tone still cold and her gaze still dangerous.
"I did not recognize your Grace," the poor man floundered, squirming under that
imperious stare. "May I offer any assistance?"
"I hardly think so," Aunt Pol said, looking him up and down. "Which is the
finest inn in Camaar?"
"That would be the Lion, my Lady."
"And-?" she said impatiently.
"And what, my Lady?" the man said, confused by her question.
"Where is it?" she demanded. "Don't stand there gaping like a dolt. Speak up."
"It lies beyond the customs houses," the guard replied, flushing at her words.
"Follow this street until you reach Customs Square. Anyone there can direct you
to the Lion."
Aunt Pol pulled her hood back up.
"Give the fellow something," she said over her shoulder and rode on into the
city without a backward glance.
"My thanks," the guard said as Wolf leaned down to hand him a small coin. "I
must admit that I haven't heard of the Duchess of Erat before."
"You're a fortunate man," Wolf said.
"She's a great beauty," the man said admiringly.
"And has a temper to match," Wolf told him.
"I noticed that," the guard said.
"We noticed you noticing," Silk told him slyly.
They nudged their horses and caught up with Aunt Pol.
"The Duchess of Erat?" Silk asked mildly.
"The fellow's manner irritated me," Aunt Pol said loftily, "and I'm tired of
putting on a poor face in front of strangers."
At Customs Square Silk accosted a busy-looking merchant trudging across the
snow-covered paving. "You-fellow," he said in the most insulting way possible,
pulling his horse directly in front of the startled merchant. "My mistress, the
Duchess of Erat, requires directions to an inn called the Lion. Be so good as to
provide them."
The merchant blinked, his face flushing at the rat-faced man's tone.
"Up that street," he said shortly, pointing. "Some goodly way. It will be on
your left. There's a sign of a Lion at the front."
Silk sniffed ungraciously, tossed a few coins into the snow at the man's feet
and whirled his horse in a grand manner. The merchant, Garion noted, looked
outraged, but he did grope in the snow for the coins Silk had thrown.
"I doubt that any of these people will quickly forget our passage," Wolf said
sourly when they were some ways up the street.
"They'll remember the passage of an arrogant noblewoman," Silk said. "This is as
good a disguise as any we've tried."
When they arnved at the inn, Aunt Pol commanded not just the usual sleeping
chambers but an entire apartment. "My chamberlain there will pay you," she said
to the innkeeper, indicating Mister Wolf. "Our baggage horses are some days
behind with the rest of my servants, so I'll require the services of a
dressmaker and a maid. See to it." And she turned and swept imperially up the
long staircase that led to her apartment, following the servant who scurried
ahead to show her the way.
"The duchess has a commanding presence, doesn't she?" the innkeeper ventured as
Wolf began counting out coins.
"She has indeed," Wolf agreed. "I've discovered the wisdom of not countering her
wishes."
"I'll be guided by you then," the innkeeper assured him. "My youngest daughter
is a serviceable girl. I'll dispatch her to serve as her Grace's maid."
"Many thanks, friend," Silk told him. "Our Lady becomes most irntable when those
things she desires are delayed, and we're the ones who suffer most from her
displeasure."
They trooped up the stairs to the apartments Aunt Pol had taken and stepped into
the main sitting room, a splendid chamber far richer than any Garion had seen
before. The walls were covered by tapestries with intricate pictures woven into
the fabric. A wealth of candles - real wax instead of smoky tallow - gleamed in
sconces on the walls and in a massive candelabra on the polished table. A good
warm fire danced merrily on the hearth, and a large carpet of curious design lay
on the floor.
Aunt Pol was standing before the fire, warming her hands. "Isn't this better
than some shabby, wharfside inn reeking of fish and unwashed sailors?" she
asked.
"If the Duchess of Erat will forgive my saying so," Wolf said somewhat tartly,
"this is hardly the way to escape notice, and the cost of these lodgings would
feed a legion for a week."
"Don't grow parsimonious in your dotage, Old Wolf," she replied. "No one takes a
sPolled noblewoman seriously, and your wagons weren't able to keep that
disgusting Brill from finding us. This guise is at least comfortable, and it
permits us to move more rapidly."
Wolf grunted. "I only hope we won't regret all this," he said.
"Stop grumbling, old man," she told him.
"Have it your way, Pol." He sighed.
"I intend to," she said.
"How are we to behave, Mistress Po1?" Durnik asked hesitantly. Her sudden regal
manner had obviously confused him. "I'm not familiar with the ways of the
gentry."
"It's quite simple, Durnik," she said. She eyed him up and down, noting his
plain, dependable face and his solid competence. "How would you like to be chief
groom to the Duchess of Erat? And master of her stables?"
Durnik laughed uncomfortably. "Noble titles for work I've done all my life," he
said. "I could manage the work easily enough, but the titles might grow a bit
heavy."
"You'll do splendidly, friend Durnik," Silk assured him. "That honest face of
yours makes people believe anything you choose to tell them. If I had a face
like yours, I could steal half the world." He turned to Aunt Pol. "And what role
am I to play, my Lady?" he asked.
"You'll be my reeve," she said. "The thievery usually associated with the
position should suit you."
Silk bowed ironically.
"And I?" Barak said, grinning openly.
"My man-at-arms," she said. "I doubt that any would believe you to be a dancing
master. Just stand around looking dangerous."
"What of me, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked. "What do I do?"
"You can be my page."
"What does a page do?"
"You fetch things for me."
"I've always done that. Is that what it's called?"
"Don't be impertinent. You also answer doors and announce visitors; and when I'm
melancholy, you may sing to me."
"Sing?" he said incredulously. "Me?"
"It's customary."
"You wouldn't make me do that, would you, Aunt Pol?"
"Your Grace," she corrected.
"You won't be very gracious if you have to listen to me sing," he warned. "My
voice isn't very good."
"You'll do just fine, dear," she said.
"And I've already been appointed to your Grace's chamberlain," Wolf said.
"My chief steward," she told him. "Manager of my estates and keeper of my
purse."
"Somehow I knew that would be part of it."
There was a timid rap at the door.
"See who that is, Garion," Aunt Pol said.
When he opened the door, Garion found a young girl with light brown hair in a
sober dress and starched apron and cap standing outside. She had very large
brown eyes that looked at him apprehensively.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I've been sent to wait upon the duchess," she said in a low voice.
"Your maid has arrived, your Grace," Garion announced.
"Splendid," Aunt Pol said. "Come in, child."
The girl entered the room.
"What a pretty thing you are," Aunt Pol said.
"Thank you, my Lady," the girl answered with a brief curtsy and a rosy blush.
"And what is your name?"
"I am called Donia, my Lady."
"A lovely name," Aunt Pol said. "Now to important matters. Is there a bath on
the premises?"
It was still snowing the next morning. The roofs of nearby houses were piled
high with white, and the narrow streets were deep with it.
"I think we're close to the end of our search," Mister Wolf said as he stared
intently out through the rippled glass of the window in the room with the
tapestries.
"It's unlikely that the one we're after would stay in Camaar for long," Silk
said.
"Very unlikely," Wolf agreed, "but once we've found his trail, we'll be able to
move more rapidly. Let's go into the city and see if I'm right."
After Mister Wolf and Silk had left, Garion sat for a while talking with Donia,
who seemed to be about his own age. Although she was not quite as pretty as
Zubrette, Garion found her soft voice and huge brown eyes extremely attractive.
Things were going along well between them until Aunt Pol's dressmaker arrived
and Donia's presence was required in the chamber where the Duchess of Erat was
being fitted for her new gowns.
Since Durnik, obviously ill at ease in the luxurious surroundings of their
chambers, had adjourned to the stables after breakfast, Garion was left in the
company of the giant Barak, who worked patiently with a small stone, polishing a
nick out of the edge of his sword - a memento of the skirmish in Muros. Garion
had never been wholly comfortable with the huge, red-bearded man. Barak spoke
rarely, and there seemed to be a kind of hulking menace about him. So it was
that Garion spent the morning examining the tapestries on the walls of the
sitting room. The tapestries depicted knights in full armor and castles on
hilltops and strangely angular-looking maidens moping about in gardens.
"Arendish," Barak said, directly behind him. Garion jumped. The huge man had
moved up so quietly that Garion had not heard him.
"How can you tell?" Garion asked politely.
"The Arends have a fondness for tapestry," Barak rumbled, "and the weaving of
pictures occupies their women while the men are off denting each other's armor."
"Do they really wear all that?" Garion asked, pointing at a heavily armored
knight pictured on the tapestry.
"Oh yes." Barak laughed. "That and more. Even their horses wear armor. It's a
silly way to make war."
Garion scuffed his shoe on the carpet.
"Is this Arendish too?" he asked.
Barak shook his head.
"Mallorean," he said.
"How did it get here all the way from MaIlorea?" Garion asked. "I've heard that
Mallorea's all the way on the other end of the world."
"It's a goodly way off," Barak agreed, "but a merchant would go twice as far to
make a profit. Such goods as this commonly move along the North Caravan Route
out of Gar og Nadrak to Boktor. Mallorean carpets are prized by the wealthy. I
don't much care for them myself, since I'm not fond of anything that has to do
with the Angaraks."
"How many kinds of Angaraks are there?" Garion asked. "I know there are Murgos
and Thulls, and I've heard stories about the Battle of Vo Mimbre and all, but I
don't know much about them really."
"There are five tribes of them," Barak said, sitting back down and resuming his
polishing, "Murgos and Thulls, Nadraks and Malloreans, and of course the
Grolims. They live in the four kingdoms of the east Mallorea, Gar og Nadrak,
Mishrak ac Thull and Cthol Murgos."
"Where do the Grolims live?"
"They have no special place," Barak replied grimly. "The Grolims are the priests
of Torak One-eye and are everywhere in the lands of the Angaraks. They're the
ones who perform the sacrifices to Torak. Grolim knives have spilled more
Angarak blood than a dozen Vo Mimbres."
Garion shuddered.
"Why should Torak take such pleasure in the slaughter of his own people?" he
asked.
"Who can say?" Barak shrugged. "He's a twisted and evil God. Some believe that
he was made mad when he used the Orb of Aldur to crack the world and the Orb
repaid him by burning out his eye and consuming his hand."
"How could the world be cracked?" Garion asked. "I've never understood that part
of the story."
"The power of the Orb of Aldur is such that it can accomplish anything," Barak
told him. "When Torak raised it, the earth was split apart by its power, and the
seas came in to drown the land. The story's very old, but I think that it's
probably true."
"Where is the Orb of Aldur now?" Garion asked suddenly.
Barak looked at him, his eyes icy blue and his face thoughtful, but he didn't
say anything.
"Do you know what I think?" Garion said on a sudden impulse. "I think that it's
the Orb of Aldur that's been stolen. I think it's the Orb that Mister Wolf is
trying to find."
"And I think it would be better if you didn't think so much about such things,"
Barak warned.
"But I want to know," Garion protested, his curiosity driving him even in the
face of Barak's words and the warning voice in his mind. "Everyone treats me
like an ignorant boy. All I do is tag along with no idea of what we're doing.
Who is Mister Wolf, anyway? Why did the Algars behave the way they did when they
saw him? How can he follow something that he can't see? Please tell me, Barak."
"Not I." Barak laughed. "Your Aunt would pull out my beard whisker by whisker if
I made that mistake."
"You're not afraid of her, are you?"
"Any man with good sense is afraid of her," Barak said, rising and sliding his
sword into its sheath.
"Aunt Pol?" Garion asked incredulously.
"Aren't you afraid of her?" Barak asked pointedly.
"No," Garion said, and then realized that was not precisely true. "Well-not
really afraid. It's more-" He left it hanging, not knowing how to explain it.
"Exactly," Barak said. "And I'm no more foolhardy than you, my boy. You're too
full of questions I'd be far wiser not to answer. If you want to know about
these things, you'll have to ask your Aunt."
"She won't tell me," Garion said glumly. "She won't tell me anything. She won't
even tell me about my parents-not really."
Barak frowned.
"That's strange," he said.
"I don't think they were Sendars," Garion said. "Their names weren't Sendarian,
and Silk says that I'm not a Sendar - at least I don't look like one."
Barak looked at him closely. "No," he said finally. "Now that you mention it,
you don't. You look more like a Rivan than anything else, but not quite that
either."
"Is Aunt Pol a Rivan?"
Barak's eyes narrowed slightly. "I think we're getting to some more of those
questions I hadn't better answer," he said.
"I'm going to find out someday," Garion said.
"But not today," Barak said. "Come along. I need some exercise. Let's go out
into the innyard and I'll teach you how to use a sword."
"Me?" Garion said, all his curiosity suddenly melting away in the excitement of
that thought.
"You're at an age where you should begin to learn," Barak said. "The occasion
may someday arise when it will be a useful thing for you to know."
Late that afternoon when Garion's arm had begun to ache from the effort of
swinging Barak's heavy sword and the whole idea of learning the skills of a
warrior had become a great deal less exciting, Mister Wolf and Silk returned.
Their clothes were wet from the snow through which they had trudged all day, but
Wolf's eyes were bright, and his face had a curiously exultant expression as he
led them all back up the stairs to the sitting room.
"Ask your Aunt to join us," he told Garion as he removed his sodden mantle and
stepped to the fire to warm himself.
Garion sensed quickly that this was not the time for questions. He hurried to
the polished door where Aunt Pol had been closeted with her dressmaker all day
and rapped.
"What is it?" her voice came from inside.
"Mister-uh-that is, your chamberlain has returned, my Lady," Garion said,
remembering at the last moment that she was not alone. "He requests a word with
you."
"Oh, very well," she said. After a minute she came out, firmly closing the door
behind her.
Garion gasped. The rich, blue velvet gown she wore made her so magnificent that
she quite took his breath away. He stared at her in helpless admiration.
"Where is he?" she asked. "Don't stand and gape, Garion. It's not polite."
"You're beautiful, Aunt Pol," he blurted.
"Yes, dear," she said, patting his cheek, "I know. Now where's the Old Wolf?"
"In the room with the tapestries," Garion said, still unable to take his eyes
from her.
"Come along, then," she said and swept down the short hall to the sitting room.
They entered to find the others all standing by the fireplace.
"Well?" she asked.
Wolf looked up at her, his eyes still bright. "An excellent choice, Pol," he
said admiringly. "Blue has always been your best color."
"Do you like it?" she asked, holding out her arms and turning almost girlishly
so that they all might see how fine she looked. "I hope it pleases you, old man,
because it's costing you a great deal of money."
Wolf laughed. "I was almost certain it would," he said.
The effect of Aunt Pol's gown on Durnik was painfully obvious. The poor man's
eyes literally bulged, and his face turned alternately very pale and then very
red, then finally settled into an expression of such hopelessness that Garion
was touched to the quick by it.
Silk and Barak in curious unison both bowed deeply and wordlessly to Aunt Pol,
and her eyes sparkled at their silent tribute.
"It's been here," Wolf announced seriously.
"You're certain?" Aunt Pol demanded.
He nodded. "I could feel the memory of its passage in the very stones."
"Did it come by sea?" she asked.
"No. He probably came ashore with it in some secluded cove up the coast and then
traveled here by land."
"And took ship again?"
"I doubt that," Wolf said. "I know him well. He's not comfortable on the sea."
"Besides which," Barak said, "one word to King Anheg of Cherek would have put a
hundred warships on his trail. No one can hide on the sea from the ships of
Cherek, and he knows that."
"You're right," Wolf agreed. "I think he'll avoid the domains of the Alorns.
That's probably why he chose not to pass along the North Road through Algaria
and Drasnia. The Spirit of Belar is strong in the kingdoms of the Alorns, and
not even this thief is bold enough to risk a confrontation with the Bear-God."
"Which leaves Arendia," Silk said, "or the land of the Ulgos."
"Arendia, I think," Wolf said. "The wrath of UL is even more fearsome than that
of Belar."
"Forgive me," Durnik said, his eyes still on Aunt Pol. "This is all most
confusing. I've never heard just exactly who this thief is."
"I'm sorry, gentle Durnik," Wolf said. "It's not a good idea to speak his name.
He has certain powers which might make it possible for him to know our every
move if we alert him to our location, and he can hear his name spoken a thousand
leagues away."
"A sorcerer?" Durnik asked unbelievingly.
"The word isn't one I'd choose," Wolf said. "It's a term used by men who don't
understand that particular art. Instead let's call him `thief,' though there are
a few other names I might call him which are far less kindly."
"Can we be certain that he'll make for the kingdoms of the Angaraks?" Silk
asked, frowning. "If that's the case, wouldn't it be quicker to take a ship
directly to Tol Honeth and pick up his trail on the South Caravan Route into
Cthol Murgos?"
Wolf shook his head. "Better to stay with this trail now that we've found it. We
don't know what he intends. Maybe he wants to keep the thing he's stolen for
himself rather than deliver it over to the Grolims. He might even seek sanctuary
in Nyissa."
"He couldn't do that without the connivance of Salmissra," Aunt Pol said.
"It wouldn't be the first time that the Queen of the Serpent People has tampered
with things that are none of her concern," Wolf pointed out.
"If that turns out to be true," Aunt Pol said grimly, "I think I'll give myself
the leisure to deal with the snake-woman permanently."
"It's too early to know," Wolf said. "Tomorrow we'll buy provisions and ferry
across the river to Arendia. I'll take up the trail there. For the time being
all we can do is follow that trail. Once we know for certain where it leads,
we'll be able to consider our alternatives."
From the evening-darkened innyard outside there came suddenly the sound of many
horses.
Barak stepped quickly to the window and glanced out.
"Soldiers," he said shortly.
"Here?" Silk said, also hurrying to the window.
"They appear to be from one of the king's regiments," Barak said. "They won't be
interested in us," Aunt Pol said.
"Unless they aren't what they seem," Silk said. "Uniforms of one kind or another
aren't that difficult to come by."
"They aren't Murgos," Barak said. "I'd recognize Murgos."
"Brill isn't a Murgo either," Silk said, staring down into the innyard.
"See if you can hear what they say," Wolf instructed.
Barak carefully opened one of the windows a crack, and the candles all flickered
in the gust of icy wind. In the yard below the captain of the soldiers was
speaking with the innkeeper.
"He's a man of somewhat more than medium height, with white hair and a short
white beard. He may be traveling with some others."
"There's such a one here, your Honor," the innkeeper said dubiously, "but I'm
sure he isn't the one you seek. This one is chief steward to the Duchess of
Erat, who honors my inn with her presence."
"The Duchess of where?" the captain asked sharply.
"Of Erat," the innkeeper replied. "A most noble lady of great beauty and a
commanding presence."
"I wonder if I might have a word with her Grace," the captain said, climbing
down from his horse.
"I'll ask her if she will receive your Honor," the innkeeper replied.
Barak closed the window.
"I'll deal with this meddlesome captain," he said firmly.
"No," Wolf said. "He's got too many soldiers with him, and if they're who they
seem to be, they're good men who haven't done us any harm."
"There's the back stairs," Silk suggested. "We could be three streets away
before he reached our door."
"And if he stationed soldiers at the back of the inn?" Aunt Pol suggested. "What
then? Since he's coming to speak with the Duchess of Erat, why don't we let the
duchess deal with him?"
"What have you got in mind?" Wolf asked.
"If the rest of you stay out of sight, I'll speak with him," she said. "I should
be able to put him off until morning. We can be across the river into Arendia
before he comes back."
"Perhaps," Wolf said, "but this captain sounds like a determined man."
"I've dealt with determined men before," she said.
"We'll have to decide quickly," Silk said from the door. "He's on the stairs
right now."
"We'll try it your way, Pol," Wolf said, opening the door to the next chamber.
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "you stay here. A duchess wouldn't be unattended."
Wolf and the others quickly left the room.
"What do you want me to do, Aunt Pol?" Garion whispered.
"Just remember that you're my page, dear," she said, seating herself in a large
chair near the center of the room and carefully arranging the folds of her gown.
"Stand near my chair and try to look attentive. I'll take care of the rest."
"Yes, my Lady," Garion said.
The captain, when he arrived behind the innkeeper's knock, proved to be a tall,
sober-looking man with penetrating gray eyes. Garion, trying his best to sound
officious, requested the soldier's name and then turned to Aunt Pol.
"There's a Captain Brendig to see you, your Grace," he announced. "He says that
it's a matter of importance."
Aunt Pol looked at him for a moment as if considering the request. "Oh, very
well," she said finally. "Show him in."
Captain Brendig stepped into the room, and the innkeeper left hurriedly.
"Your Grace," the captain said, bowing deferentially to Aunt Pol.
"What is it, Captain?" she demanded.
"I would not trouble your Grace if my mission were not of such urgency," Brendig
apologized. "My orders are directly from the king himself, and you of all people
will know that we must defer to his wishes."
"I suppose I can spare you a few moments for the king's business," she said.
"There's a certain man the king wishes to have apprehended," Brendig said. "An
elderly man with white hair and beard. I'm informed that you have such a one
among your servants."
"Is the man a criminal?" she asked.
"The king didn't say so, your Grace," he told her. "I was only told that the man
was to be seized and delivered to the palace at Sendarand, all who are with him
as well."
"I am seldom at court," Aunt Pol said. "It's most unlikely that any of my
servants would be of such interest to the king."
"Your Grace," Brendig said delicately, "in addition to my duties in one of the
king's own regiments, I also have the honor to hold a baronetcy. I've been at
court all my life and must confess that I've never seen you there. A lady of
your striking appearance would not be soon forgotten."
Aunt Pol inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment. "I
suppose I should have guessed, my Lord Brendig," she said. "Your manners are not
those of a common soldier."
"Moreover, your Grace," he continued, "I'm familiar with all the holdings of the
kingdom. If I'm not mistaken, the district of Erat is an earldom, and the Earl
of Erat is a short, stout man - my great uncle incidentally. There has been no
duchy in that part of Sendaria since the kingdom was under the dominion of the
Wacite Arends."
Aunt Pol fixed him with an icy stare.
"My Lady," Brendig said almost apologetically, "the Wacite Arends were
exterminated by their Asturian cousins in the last years of the third millenium.
There has been no Wacite nobility for over two thousand years."
"I thank you for the history lesson, my Lord," Aunt Pol said coldly.
"All of that, however, is hardly the issue, is it?" Brendig continued. "I am
bidden by my king to seek out the man of whom I spoke. Upon your honor, Lady, do
you know such a man?"
The question hung in the air between them, and Garion, knowing in sudden panic
that they were caught, almost shouted for Barak.
Then the door to the next chamber opened, and Mister Wolf stepped into the room.
"There's no need to continue with this," he said. "I'm the one you're looking
for. What does Fulrach of Sendaria want with me?"
Brendig looked at him without seeming surprise. "His Majesty did not see fit to
take me into his confidence," he said. "He will explain it himself, I have no
doubt, as soon as we reach the palace at Sendar."
"The sooner the better then," Wolf said. "When do we leave?"
"We depart for Sendar directly after breakfast in the morning," Brendig said. "I
will accept your word that none of you will attempt to leave this inn during the
night. I'd prefer not to subject the Duchess of Erat to the indignity of
confinement at the local barracks. The cells there are most uncomfortable, I'm
told."
"You have my word," Mister Wolf said.
"Thank you," Brendig said, bowing slightly. "I must also advise you that I am
obliged to post guards about this inn - for your protection, of course."
"Your solicitude overwhelms us, my Lord," Aunt Pol said dryly.
"Your servant, my Lady," Brendig said with a formal bow. And then he turned and
left the room.
The polished door was only wood; Garion knew that, but as it closed behind the
departing Brendig it seemed to have that dreadful, final clang of the door to a
dungeon.
Chapter Eleven
THEY WERE NINE DAYS on the coast road from Camaar to the capital at Sendar,
though it was only fifty-five leagues. Captain Brendig measured their pace
carefully, and his detachment of soldiers was arranged in such fashion that even
the thought of escape was impossible. Although it had stopped snowing, the road
was still difficult, and the wind which blew in off the sea and across the
broad, snow-covered salt marshes was raw and chill. They stayed each night in
the evenly spaced Sendarian hostels which stood like mileposts along that
uninhabited stretch of coast. The hostels were not quite so well appointed as
were their Tolnedran counterparts along the Great North Road, but they were at
least adequate. Captain Brendig seemed solicitous about their comfort, but he
also posted guards each night.
On the evening of the second day, Garion sat near the fire with Durnik, staring
moodily into the flames. Durnik was his oldest friend, and Garion felt a
desperate need for friendship just then.
"Durnik," he said finally.
"Yes, lad?"
"Have you ever been in a dungeon?"
"What could I have done to be put in a dungeon?"
"I thought that you might have seen one sometime."
"Honest folk don't go near such places," Durnik said.
"I've heard they're awful-dark and cold and full of rats." "What is this talk of
dungeons?" Durnik asked.
"I'm afraid we may find out all about places like that very soon," Garion said,
trying not to sound too frightened.
"We've done nothing wrong," Durnik said.
"Then why would the king have us seized like this? Kings don't do things like
that without good reason."
"We haven't done anything wrong," Durnik repeated stubbornly.
"But maybe Mister Wolf has," Garion suggested. "The king wouldn't send all these
soldiers after him without some reason - and we could all be thrown in the
dungeon with him just because we happened to be his companions."
"Thing like that don't happen in Sendaria," Durnik said firmly.
The next day the wind was very strong as it blew in off the sea; but it was a
warm wind, and the foot-deep snow on the road began to turn slushy. By midday it
had started to rain. They rode in sodden misery toward the next hostel.
"I'm afraid we'll have to delay our journey until this blows out," Captain
Brendig said that evening, looking out one of the tiny windows of the hostel.
"The road's going to be quite impassable by morning."
They spent the next day, and the next, sitting in the cramped main room of the
hostel listening to the wind-driven rain slashing at the walls and roof, all the
while under the watchful eyes of Brendig and his soldiers.
"Silk," Garion said on the second day, moving over to the bench where the
rat-faced little man sat dozing.
"Yes, Garion?" Silk asked, rousing himself.
"What kind of man is the king?"
"Which king?"
"Of Sendaria."
"A foolish man - like all kings." Silk laughed. "The Sendarian kings are perhaps
a bit more foolish, but that's only natural. Why do you ask?"
"Well" Garion hesitated. "Let's suppose that somebody did something that the
king didn't like, and there were some other people traveling with him, and the
king had these people seized. Would the king just throw them all into the
dungeon? Or would he let the others go and just keep the one who'd angered him?"
Silk looked at him for a moment and then spoke firmly.
"That question is unworthy of you, Garion."
Garion flushed. "
I'm afraid of dungeons," he said in a small voice, suddenly very ashamed of
himself. "I don't want to be locked up in the dark forever when I don't even
know what for."
"The kings of Sendaria are just and honest men," Silk told him. "Not too bright,
I'm afraid, but always fair."
"How can they be kings if they aren't wise?" Garion objected.
"Wisdom's a useful trait in a king," Silk said, "but hardly essential."
"How do they get to be kings, then?" Garion demanded.
"Some are born to it," Silk said. "The stupidest man in the world can be a king
if he has the right parents. Sendarian kings have a disadvantage because they
started so low."
"Low?"
"They were elected. Nobody ever elected a king before - only the Sendars."
"How do you elect a king?"
Silk smiled.
"Very badly, Garion. It's a poor way to select a king. The other ways are worse,
but election is a very bad way to choose a king."
"Tell me how it was done," Garion said.
Silk glanced briefly at the rain-spattered window across the room and shrugged.
"It's a way to pass the time," he said. And then he leaned back, stretched his
feet toward the fire and began.
"It all started about fifteen hundred years ago," he said, his voice loud enough
to reach the ears of Captain Brendig, who sat nearby writing on a piece of
parchment. "Sendaria wasn't a kingdom then, nor even a separate country. It had
belonged from time to time to Cherek, Algaria or the northern Arends - Wacite or
Asturian, depending on the fortunes of the Arendish civil war. When that war
finally came to an end and the Wacites were destroyed and the Asturians had been
defeated and driven into the untracked reaches of the great forest in northern
Arendia, the Emperor of Tolnedra, Ran Horb II, decided that there ought to be a
kingdom here."
"How could a Tolnedran emperor make that kind of decision for Sendaria?" Garion
asked.
"The arm of the Empire is very long," Silk said. "The Great North Road had been
built during the Second Borune Dynasty- I think it was Ran Borune IV who started
the construction, wasn't it, Captain?"
"The fifth," Brendig said somewhat sourly without looking up. "Ran Borune V."
"Thank you, Captain," Silk said. "I can never keep the Borune Dynasties
straight. Anyway, there were already imperial legions in Sendaria to maintain
the highway, and if one has troops in an area, one has a certain authority,
wouldn't you say, Captain?"
"It's your story," Brendig said shortly.
"Indeed it is," Silk agreed. "Now it wasn't really out of any kind of generosity
that Ran Horb made his decision, Garion. Don't misunderstand that. Tolnedrans
never give anything away. It was just that the Mimbrate Arends had finally won
the Arendish civil war - a thousand years of bloodshed and treachery - and
Tolnedra couldn't afford to allow the Mimbrates to expand into the north. The
creation of an independent kingdom in Sendaria would block Mimbrate access to
the trade routes down out of Drasnia and prevent the seat of world power from
moving to Vo Mimbre and leaving the imperial capital at Tol Honeth in a kind of
backwater."
"It all sounds terribly involved," Garion said.
"Not really," Silk said. "It's only politics, and that's a very simple game,
isn't it, Captain?"
"A game I do not play," Brendig said, not looking up.
"Really?" Silk asked. "So long at court and not a politician? You're a rare man,
Captain. At any rate, the Sendars suddenly discovered that they had themselves a
kingdom but that they had no genuine hereditary nobility. Oh, there were a few
retired Tolnedran nobles living on estates here and there, assorted pretenders
to this or that Wacite or Asturian title, a Cherek war chief or two with a few
followers, but no genuine Sendarian nobility. And so it was that they decided to
hold a national election - select a king, don't you see, and then leave the
bestowing of titles up to him. A very practical approach, and typically
Sendarian."
"How do you elect a king?" Garion asked, beginning to lose his dread of dungeons
in his fascination with the story.
"Everybody votes," Silk said simply. "Parents, of course, probably cast the
votes for their children, but it appears that there was very little cheating.
The rest of the world stood around and laughed at all this foolishness, but the
Sendars continued to cast ballot after ballot for a dozen years."
"Six years, actually," Brendig said with his face still down over his parchment.
"3827 to 3833."
"And there were over a thousand candidates," Silk said expansively.
"Seven hundred and forty-three," Brendig said tightly.
"I stand corrected, noble Captain," Silk said. "It's an enormous comfort to have
such an expert here to catch my errors. I'm but a simple Drasnian merchant with
little background in history. Anyway, on the twenty-third ballot, they finally
elected their king - a rutabaga farmer named Fundor."
"He raised more than just rutabagas," Brendig said, looking up with an angry
face.
"Of course he did," Silk said, smacking his forehead with an open palm. "How
could I have forgotten the cabbages? He raised cabbages, too, Garion. Never
forget the cabbages. Well, everybody in Sendaria who thought he was important
journeyed to Fundor's farm and found him vigorously fertilizing his fields, and
they greeted him with a great cry, `Hail, Fundor the Magnificent, King of
Sendaria,' and fell on their knees in his august presence."
"Must we continue with this?" Brendig asked in a pained voice, looking up.
"The boy wants to know, Captain," Silk replied with an innocent face. "It's our
duty as his elders to instruct him in the history of our past, wouldn't you
say?"
"Say whatever you like," Brendig said in a stiff voice.
"Thank you for your permission, Captain," Silk said, inclining his head. "Do you
know what the King of Sendaria said then, Garion?" he asked.
"No," Garion said. "What?"
" `I pray you, your eminences,' the king said, `have a care for your finery. I
have just well manured the bed in which you are kneeling.' "
Barak, who was sitting nearby, roared with laughter, pounding his knee with one
huge hand.
"I find this less than amusing, sir," Captain Brendig said coldly, rising to his
feet. "I make no jokes about the King of Drasnia, do I?"
"You're a courteous man, Captain," Silk said mildly, "and a noble man. I'm
merely a poor man trying to make his way in the world."
Brendig looked at him helplessly and then turned and stamped from the room.
The following morning the wind had blown itself out and the rain had stopped.
The road was very nearly a quagmire, but Brendig decided that they must
continue. Travel that day was difficult, but the next was somewhat easier as the
road began to drain.
Aunt Pol seemed unconcerned by the fact that they had been seized at the king's
orders. She maintained her regal bearing even though Garion saw no real need to
continue the subterfuge and wished fervently that she would abandon it. The
familiar practical sensibility with which she had ruled her kitchen at Faldor's
farm had somehow been replaced by a kind of demanding willfulness that Garion
found particularly distressing. For the first time in his life he felt a
distance between them, and it left a vacancy that had never been there before.
To make matters worse, the gnawing uncertainty which had been steadily growing
since Silk's unequivocal declaration on the hilltop outside Winold that Aunt Pol
could not possibly be his Aunt sawed roughly at his sense of his own identity,
and Garion often found himself staring at the awful question, "Who am I?"
Mister Wolf seemed changed as well. He seldom spoke either on the road nor at
night in the hostels. He spent a great deal of time sitting by himself with an
expression of moody irritability on his face.
Finally, on the ninth day after their departure from Camaar, the broad salt
marshes ended, and the land along the coast became more rolling. They topped a
hill about midday just as the pale winter sun broke through the clouds, and
there in the valley below them the walled city of Sendar lay facing the sea.
The detachment of guards at the south gate of the city saluted smartly as
Captain Brendig led the little party through, and he returned their salute
crisply. The broad streets of the city seemed filled with people in the finest
clothing, all moving about importantly as if their errands were the most vital
in the world.
"Courtiers." Barak, who chanced to be riding beside Garion, snorted with
contempt. "Not a real man amongst them."
"A necessary evil, my dear Barak," Silk said back over his shoulder to the big
man. "Little jobs require little men, and it's the little jobs that keep a
kingdom running."
After they had passed through a magnificently large square, they moved up a wide
avenue to the palace. It was a very large building with many stories and broad
wings extending out on each side of the paved courtyard. The entire structure
was surmounted by a round tower that was easily the highest edifice in the whole
city.
"Where do you suppose the dungeons are?" Garion whispered to Durnik when they
stopped.
"I would take it most kindly, Garion," Durnik said with a pained look, "if you
would not speak so much of dungeons."
Captain Brendig dismounted and went to meet a fussy-looking man in an
embroidered tunic and feathered cap who came down the wide steps at the front of
the palace to meet them. They spoke for a few moments and seemed to be arguing.
"My orders are from the king himself," Brendig said, his voice carrying to where
they sat. "I am commanded to deliver these people directly to him immediately
upon our arrival."
"My orders are also from the king," the fussy-looking man said, "and l am
commanded to have them made presentable before they are delivered to the throne
room. I will take charge of them."
"They will remain in my custody, Count Nilden, until they have been delivered to
the king himself," Brendig said coldly.
"I will not have your muddy soldiers tracking through the halls of the palace,
Lord Brendig," the Count replied.
"Then we will wait here, Count Nilden," Brendig said. "Be so good as to fetch
his Majesty."
"Fetch?" The Count's face was aghast. "I am Chief Butler to his Majesty's
household, Lord Brendig. I do not fetch anything or anybody."
Brendig turned as if to remount his horse.
"Oh, very well," Count Nilden said petulantly, "if you must have it your own
way. At least have them wipe their feet."
Brendig bowed coldly.
"I won't forget this, Lord Brendig," Nilden threatened.
"Nor shall I, Count Nilden," Brendig replied.
Then they all dismounted and, with Brendig's soldiers drawn up in close order
about them, they crossed the courtyard to a broad door near the center of the
west wing.
"Be so good as to follow me," Count Nilden said, glancing with a shudder at the
mud-spattered soldiers, and he led them into the wide corridor which lay beyond
the door.
Apprehension and curiosity struggled in Garion's mind. Despite the assurances of
Silk and Durnik and the hopeful implications of Count Nilden's announcement that
he was going to have them made presentable, the threat of some clammy,
rat-infested dungeon, complete with a rack and a wheel and other unpleasant
things, still seemed very real. On the other hand, he had never been in a palace
before, and his eyes tried to be everywhere at once. That part of his mind which
sometimes spoke to him in dry detachment told him that his fears were probably
groundless and that his gawking made him appear to be a doltish country bumpkin.
Count Nilden led them directly to a part of the corndor where there were a
number of highly polished doors. "This one is for the boy," he announced,
pointing at one of them.
One of the soldiers opened the door, and Garion reluctantly stepped through,
looking back over his shoulder at Aunt Pol.
"Come along now," a somewhat impatient voice said. Garion whirled, not knowing
what to expect.
"Close the door, boy," the fine-looking man who had been waiting for him said.
"We don't have all day, you know." The man was waiting beside a large wooden tub
with steam rising from it. "Quickly, boy, take off those filthy rags and get
into the tub. His Majesty is waiting."
Too confused to object or even answer, Garion numbly began to unlace his tunic.
After he had been bathed and the knots had been brushed out of his hair, he was
dressed in clothes which lay on a nearby bench. His coarse woolen hose of
serviceable peasant brown were exchanged for ones of a much finer weave in a
lustrous blue. His scuffed and muddy boots were traded for soft leather shoes.
His tunic was soft white linen, and the doublet he wore over it was a rich blue,
trimmed with a silvery fur.
"I guess that's the best I can do on short notice," the man who had bathed and
dressed him said, looking him up and down critically. "At least I won't be
totally embarrassed when you're presented to the king."
Garion mumbled his thanks and then stood, waiting for further instructions.
"Well, go along, boy. You mustn't keep his Majesty waiting."
Silk and Barak stood in the corridor, talking quietly. Barak was hugely splendid
in a green brocade doublet, but looked uncomfortable without his sword. Silk's
doublet was a rich black, trimmed in silver, and his scraggly whiskers had been
carefully trimmed into an elegant short beard.
"What does all of this mean?" Garion asked as he joined them. "We're to be
presented to the king," Barak said, "and our honest clothes might have given
offense. Kings aren't accustomed to looking at ordinary men."
Durnik emerged from one of the rooms, his face pale with anger. "That
overdressed fool wanted to give me a bath!" he said in choked outrage.
"It's the custom," Silk explained. "Noble guests aren't expected to bathe
themselves. I hope you didn't hurt him."
"I'm not a noble, and I'm quite able to bathe myself," Durnik said hotly. "I
told him that I'd drown him in his own tub if he didn't keep his hands to
himself. After that, he didn't pester me anymore, but he did steal my clothes. I
had to put these on instead." He gestured at his clothes which were quite
similar to Garion's. "I hope nobody sees me in all this frippery."
"Barak says the king might be offended if he saw us in our real clothes," Garion
told him.
"The king won't be looking at me," Durnik said, "and I don't like this business
of trying to look like something I'm not. I'll wait outside with the horses if I
can get my own clothes back."
"Be patient, Durnik," Barak advised. "We'll get this business with the king
straightened out and then be on our way again."
If Durnik was angry, Mister Wolf was in what could best be described as a
towering fury. He came out into the corridor dressed in a snowy white robe,
deeply cowled at the back. "Someone's going to pay for this," he raged.
"It does become you," Silk said admiringly.
"Your taste has always been questionable, Master Silk," Wolf said in a frosty
tone. "Where's Pol?"
"The lady has not yet made her appearance," Silk said.
"I should have known," Wolf said, sitting down on a nearby bench. "We may as
well be comfortable. Pol's preparations usually take quite a while."
And so they waited. Captain Brendig, who had changed his boots and doublet,
paced up and down as the minutes dragged by. Garion was totally baffled by their
reception. They did not seem to be under arrest, but his imagination still saw
dungeons, and that was enough to make him very jumpy.
And then Aunt Pol appeared. She wore the blue velvet gown that had been made for
her in Camaar and a silver circlet about her head which set off the single white
lock at her brow. Her bearing was regal and her face stern.
"So soon, Mistress Pol?" Wolf asked dryly. "I hope you weren't rushed."
She ignored that and examined each of them in turn.
"Adequate, I suppose," she said finally, absently adjusting the collar of
Garion's doublet. "Give me your arm, Old Wolf, and let's find out what the King
of the Sendars wants with us."
Mister Wolf rose from his bench, extended his arm, and the two of them started
down the corridor. Captain Brendig hastily assembled his soldiers and followed
them all in some kind of ragged order. "If you please, my Lady," he called out
to Aunt Pol, "permit me to show you the way."
"We know the way, Lord Brendig," she replied without so much as turning her
head.
Count Nilden, the Chief Butler, stood waiting for them in front of two massive
doors guarded by uniformed men-at-arms. He bowed slightly to Aunt Pol and
snapped his fingers. The men-at-arms swung the heavy doors inward.
Fulrach, the King of Sendaria, was a dumpy-looking man with a short brown beard.
He sat, rather uncomfortably it appeared, on a highbacked throne which stood on
a dais at one end of the great hall into which Count Nilden led them. The throne
room was vast, with a high, vaulted ceiling and walls covered with what seemed
acres of heavy, red velvet drapery. There were candles everywhere, and dozens of
people strolled about in fine clothes and chatted idly in the corners, all but
ignoring the presence of the king.
"May I announce you?" Count Nilden asked Mister Wolf.
"Fulrach knows who I am," Wolf replied shortly and strode down the long scarlet
carpet toward the throne with Aunt Pol still on his arm. Garion and the others
followed, with Brendig and his soldiers close behind, through the suddenly quiet
crowd of courtiers and their ladies.
At the foot of the throne they all stopped, and Wolf bowed rather coldly. Aunt
Pol, her eyes frosty, curtsied, and Barak and Silk bowed in a courtly manner.
Durnik and Garion followed suit, though not nearly as gracefully.
"If it please your Majesty," Brendig's voice came from behind them, "these are
the ones you sought."
"I knew you could be depended upon, Lord Brendig," the King replied in a rather
ordinary-sounding voice. "Your reputation is well deserved. You have my thanks."
Then he looked at Mister Wolf and the rest of them, his expression
undecipherable.
Garion began to tremble.
"My dear old friend," the king said to Mister Wolf. "It's been too many years
since we met last."
"Have you lost your wits entirely, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf snapped in a voice
which carried no further than the king's ears. "Why do you choose to interfere
with me - now, of all times? And what possessed you to outfit me in this absurd
thing?" He plucked at the front of his white robe in disgust. "Are you trying to
announce my presence to every Murgo from here to the hook of Arendia?"
The king's face looked pained. "I was afraid you might take it this way," he
said in a voice no louder than Mister Wolf's had been. "I'll explain when we can
speak more privately." He turned quickly to Aunt Pol as if trying to preserve
the appearance at least of dignity. "It's been much too long since we have seen
you, dear Lady. Layla and the children have missed you, and I have been desolate
in your absence."
"Your Majesty is too kind," Aunt Pol said, her tone as cold as Wolf's. The king
winced. "Pray, dear Lady," he apologized, "don't judge me too hastily. My
reasons were urgent. I hope that Lord Brendig's summons did not too greatly
inconvenience you."
"Lord Brendig was the soul of courtesy," Aunt Pol said, her tone unchanged. She
glanced once at Brendig, who had grown visibly pale.
"And you, my Lord Barak," the king hurned on as if trying to make the best of a
bad situation, "how fares your cousin, our dear brother king, Anheg of Cherek?"
"He was well when last I saw him, your Majesty," Barak replied formally. "A bit
drunk, but that's not unusual for Anheg."
The king chuckled a bit nervously and turned quickly to Silk. "Prince Kheldar of
the Royal House of Drasnia," he said. "We are amazed to find such noble visitors
in our realm, and more than a little injured that they chose not to call upon us
so that we might greet them. Is the King of the Sendars of so little note that
he's not even worth a brief stop?"
"We intended no disrespect, your Majesty," Silk replied, bowing, "but our errand
was of such urgency that there was no time for the usual courtesies."
The king flickered a warning glance at that and surprisingly wove his fingers in
the scarce perceptible gestures of the Drasnian secret language. Not here. Too
many ears about. He then looked inquiringly at Durnik and Garion.
Aunt Pol stepped forward.
"This is Goodman Durnik of the District of Erat, your Majesty," she said, "a
brave and honest man."
"Welcome, Goodman Durnik," the king said. "I can only hope that men may also one
day call me a brave and honest man."
Durnik bowed awkwardly, his face filled with bewilderment. "I'm just a simple
blacksmith, your Honor," he said, "but I hope all men know that I am your
Honor's most loyal and devoted subject."
"Well-spoken, Goodman Durnik," the king said with a smile, and then he looked at
Garion.
Aunt Pol followed his glance.
"A boy, your Majesty," she said rather indifferently. "Garion by name. He was
placed in my care some years ago and accompanies us because I didn't know what
else to do with him."
A terrible coldness struck at Garion's stomach. The certainty that her casual
words were in fact the bald truth came crashing down upon him. She had not even
tried to soften the blow. The indifference with which she had destroyed his life
hurt almost more than the destruction itself.
"Also welcome, Garion," the king said. "You travel in noble company for one so
young."
"I didn't know who they were, your Majesty," Garion said miserably. "Nobody
tells me anything."
The king laughed in tolerant amusement.
"As you grow older, Garion," he said, "you'll probably find that during these
days such innocence is the most comfortable state in which to live. I've been
told things of late that I'd much prefer not to know."
"May we speak privately now, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf said, his voice still
irritated.
"In good time, my old friend," the king replied. "I've ordered a banquet
prepared in your honor. Let's all go in and dine. Layla and the children are
waiting for us. There will be time later to discuss certain matters." And with
that he rose and stepped down from the dais.
Garion, sunk in his private misery, fell in beside Silk. "Prince Kheldar?" he
said, desperately needing to take his mind off the shocking reality that had
just fallen upon him.
"An accident of birth, Garion," Silk said with a shrug. "Something over which I
had no control. Fortunately I'm only the nephew of the King of Drasnia and far
down in the line of succession. I'm not in any immediate danger of ascending the
throne."
"And Barak is-?"
"The cousin of King Anheg of Cherek," Silk replied. He looked over his shoulder.
"What is your exact rank, Barak?" he asked.
"The Earl of Trellheim," Barak rumbled. "Why do you ask?"
"The lad here was curious," Silk said.
"It's all nonsense anyway," Barak said, "but when Anheg became king, someone had
to become Clan-Chief. In Cherek you can't be both. It's considered unlucky particularly by the chiefs of the other clans."
"I can see why they might feel that way." Silk laughed.
"It's an empty title anyway," Barak observed. "There hasn't been a clan war in
Cherek for over three thousand years. I let my youngest brother act in my stead.
He's a simpleminded fellow and easily amused. Besides, it annoys my wife."
"You're married?" Garion was startled.
"If you want to call it that," Barak said sourly.
Silk nudged Garion warningly, indicating that this was a delicate subject.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Garion demanded accusingly. "About your titles, I
mean."
"Would it have made any difference?" Silk asked.
"Well - no," Garion admitted, "but " He stopped, unable to put his feelings
about the matter into words. "I don't understand any of this," he concluded
lamely.
"It will all become clear in time," Silk assured him as they entered the banquet
hall.
The hall was almost as large as the throne room. There were long tables covered
with fine linen cloth and once again candles everywhere. A servant stood behind
each chair, and everything was supervised by a plump little woman with a beaming
face and a tiny crown perched precariously atop her head. As they all entered,
she came forward quickly.
"Dear Pol," she said, "you look just wonderful." She embraced Aunt Pol warmly,
and the two began talking together animatedly.
"Queen Layla," Silk explained briefly to Garion. "They call her the Mother of
Sendaria. The four children over there are hers. She has four or five others older and probably away on state business, since Fulrach insists that his
children earn their keep. It's a standard joke among the other kings that Queen
Layla's been pregnant since she was fourteen, but that's probably because
they're expected to send royal gifts at each new birth. She's a good woman,
though, and she keeps King Fulrach from making too many mistakes."
"She knows Aunt Pol," Garion said, and that fact disturbed him for some reason.
"Everybody knows your Aunt Pol," Silk told him.
Since Aunt Pol and the queen were deep in conversation and already drifting
toward the head of the table, Garion stayed close to Silk. Don't let me make any
mistakes, he gestured, trying to keep the movements of his fingers
inconspicuous.
Silk winked in reply.
Once they were all seated and the food began to arrive, Garion began to relax.
He found that all he had to do was follow Silk's lead, and the intricate
niceties of formal dining no longer intimidated him. The talk around him was
dignified and quite incomprehensible, but he reasoned that no one was likely to
pay much attention to him and that he was probably safe if he kept his mouth
shut and his eyes on his plate.
An elderly nobleman with a beautifully curled silvery beard, however, leaned
toward him. "You have traveled recently, I'm told," he said in a somewhat
condescending tone. "How fares the kingdom, young man?"
Garion looked helplessly across the table at Silk. What do I say? he gestured
with his fingers.
Tell him that the kingdom fares no better nor no worse than might be anticipated
under the present circumstances, Silk replied.
Garion dutifully repeated that.
"Ah," the old nobleman said, "much as I had expected. You're a very observant
boy for one so young. I enjoy talking with young people. Their views are so
fresh."
Who is he? Garion gestured.
The Earl of Seline, Silk replied. He's a tiresome old bore, but be polite to
him. Address him as my Lord.
"And how did you find the roads?" the earl inquired.
"Somewhat in disrepair, my Lord," Garion replied with Silk's prompting. "But
that's normal for this time of year, isn't it?"
"Indeed it is," the earl said approvingly. "What a splendid boy you are."
The strange three-way conversation continued, and Garion even began to enjoy
himself as the comments fed to him by Silk seemed to amaze the old gentleman.
At last the banquet was over, and the king rose from his seat at the head of the
table. "And now, dear friends," he announced, "Queen Layla and I would like to
visit privately with our noble guests, and so we pray you will excuse us." He
offered his arm to Aunt Pol, Mister Wolf offered his to the plump little queen,
and the four of them walked toward the far door of the hall.
The Earl of Seline smiled broadly at Garion and then looked across the table.
"I've enjoyed our conversation, Prince Kheldar," he said to Silk. "I may indeed
be a tiresome old bore as you say, but that can sometimes be an advantage, don't
you think?"
Silk laughed ruefully. "I should have known that an old fox like you would be an
adept at the secret language, my Lord."
"A legacy from a misspent youth." The earl laughed. "Your pupil is most
proficient, Prince Kheldar, but his accent is strange."
"The weather was cold while he was learning, my Lord," Silk said, "and our
fingers were a bit stiff. I'll correct the problem when we have leisure."
The old nobleman seemed enormously pleased with himself at having outsmarted
Silk. "Splendid boy," he said, patting Garion's shoulder, and then he went off
chuckling to himself.
"You knew he understood all along," Garion accused Silk.
"Of course," Silk said. "Drasnian intelligence knows every adept at our secret
speech. Sometimes it's useful to permit certain carefully selected messages to
be intercepted. Don't ever underestimate the Earl of Seline, however. It's not
impossible that he's at least as clever as I am, but look how much he enjoyed
catching us."
"Can't you ever do anything without being sly?" Garion asked. His tone was a bit
grumpy, since he was convinced that somehow he had been the butt of the whole
joke.
"Not unless I absolutely have to, my Garion." Silk laughed. "People such as I
continually practice deception -even when it's not necessary. Our lives
sometimes depend on how cunning we are, and so we need to keep our wits sharp."
"It must be a lonely way to live," Garion observed rather shrewdly at the silent
prompting of his inner voice. "You never really trust anyone, do you?"
"I suppose not," Silk said. "It's a game we play, Garion. We're all very skilled
at it - at least we are if we intend to live very long. We all know each other,
since we're members of a very small profession. The rewards are great, but after
a while we play our game only for the joy of defeating each other. You're right,
though. It is lonely, and sometimes disgusting - but most of the time it's a
great deal of fun."
Count Nilden came up to them and bowed politely. "His Majesty asks that you and
the boy join him and your other friends in his private apartments, Prince
Kheldar," he said. "If you'll be so good as to follow me."
"Of course," Silk said. "Come along, Garion."
The king's private apartments were much simpler than the ornate halls in the
main palace. King Fulrach had removed his crown and state robes and now looked
much like any other Sendar in rather ordinary clothes. He stood talking quietly
with Barak. Queen Layla and Aunt Pol were seated on a couch deep in
conversation, and Durnik was not far away, trying his best to look
inconspicuous. Mister Wolf stood alone near a window, his face like a
thundercloud.
"Ah, Prince Kheldar," the king said. "We thought perhaps you and Garion had been
waylaid."
"We were fencing with the Earl of Seline, your Majesty," Silk said lightly.
"Figuratively speaking, of course."
"Be careful of him," the king cautioned. "It's quite possible that he's too
shrewd even for one of your talents."
"I have a great deal of respect for the old scoundrel." Silk laughed.
King Fulrach glanced apprehensively at Mister Wolf, then squared his shoulders
and sighed. "I suppose we'd better get this unpleasantness over with," he said.
"Layla, would you entertain our other guests while I give our grim-faced old
friend there and the Lady the opportunity to scold me. It's obvious that he's
not going to be happy until they've said a few unkind things to me about some
matters that weren't really my fault."
"Of course, dear," Queen Layla said. "Try not to be too long and please don't
shout. The children have been put to bed and they need their rest."
Aunt Pol rose from the couch, and she and Mister Wolf, whose expression hadn't
changed, followed the king into an adjoining chamber.
"Well, then," Queen Layla said pleasantly; "what shall we talk about?"
"I am instructed, your Highness, to convey the regards of Queen Porenn of
Drasnia to you should the occasion arise," Silk said in a courtly manner. "She
asks leave of you to broach a correspondence on a matter of some delicacy."
"Why, of course," Queen Layla beamed. "She's a dear child, far too pretty and
sweet-natured for that fat old bandit, Rhodar. I hope he hasn't made her
unhappy."
"No, your Highness," Silk said. "Amazing though it may seem, she loves my uncle
to distraction, and he, of course, is delirious with joy over so young and
beautiful a wife. It's positively sickening the way they dote on each other."
"Some day, Prince Kheldar, you will fall in love," the queen said with a little
smirk, "and the twelve kingdoms will stand around and chortle over the fall of
so notorious a bachelor. What is this matter Porenn wishes to discuss with me?"
"It's a question of fertility, your Highness," Silk said with a delicate cough.
"She wants to present my uncle with an heir and she needs to seek your advice in
the business. The entire world stands in awe of your gifts in that particular
area."
Queen Layla blushed prettily and then laughed.
"I'll write to her at once," she promised.
Garion by now had carefully worked his way to the door through which King
Fulrach had taken Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf. He began a meticulous examination of
a tapestry on the wall to conceal the fact that he was trying to hear what was
going on behind the closed door. It took him only a moment to begin to pick up
familiar voices.
"Exactly what does all this foolishness mean, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf was saying.
"Please don't judge me too hastily, Ancient One," the King said placatingly.
"Some things have happened that you might not be aware of."
"You know that I'm aware of everything that happens," Wolf said.
"Did you know that we are defenseless if the Accursed One awakens? That which
held him in check has been stolen from off the throne of the Rivan King."
"As a matter of fact, I was following the trail of the thief when your noble
Captain Brendig interrupted me in my search."
"I'm sorry," Fulrach said, "but you wouldn't have gone much farther anyway. All
the Kings of Aloria have been searching for you for three months now. Your
likeness, drawn by the finest artists, is in the hands of every ambassador,
agent and official of the five kingdoms of the north. Actually, you've been
followed since you left Darine."
"Fulrach, I'm busy. Tell the Alorn Kings to leave me alone. Why are they
suddenly so interested in my movements?"
"They want to have council with you," the king said. "The Alorns are preparing
for war, and even my poor Sendaria is being quietly mobilized. If the Accursed
One arises now, we're all doomed. The power that's been stolen can very possibly
be used to awaken him, and his first move will be to attack the west - you know
that, Belgarath. And you also know that until the return of the Rivan King, the
west has no real defense."
Garion blinked and started violently, then tried to cover the sudden movement by
bending to look at some of the finer detail on the tapestry. He told himself
that he had heard wrong. The name King Fulrach had spoken could not have really
been Belgarath. Belgarath was a fairy-tale figure, a myth.
"Just tell the Alorn Kings that I'm in pursuit of the thief," Mister Wolf said.
"I don't have time for councils just now. If they'll leave me alone, I should be
able to catch up with him before he can do any mischief with the thing he's
managed to steal."
"Don't tempt fate, Fulrach," Aunt Pol advised. "Your interference is costing us
time we can't afford to lose. Presently I'll become vexed with you."
The king's voice was firm as he answered. "I know your power, Lady Polgara," he
said, and Garion jumped again. "I don't have any choice, however," the king
continued. "I'm bound by my word to deliver you all up at Val Alorn to the Kings
of Aloria, and a king can't break his word to other kings."
There was a long silence in the other room while Garion's mind raced through a
dozen possibilities.
"You're not a bad man, Fulrach," Mister Wolf said. "Not perhaps as bright as I
might wish, but a good man nonetheless. I won't raise my hand against you - nor
will my daughter."
"Speak of yourself, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said grimly.
"No, Polgara," he said. "If we have to go to Val Alorn, let's go with all
possible speed. The sooner we explain things to the Alorns, the sooner they'll
stop interfering."
"I think age is beginning to soften your brain, Father," Aunt Pol said. "We
don't have the time for this excursion to Val Alorn. Fulrach can explain to the
Alorn Kings."
"It won't do any good, Lady Polgara," the king said rather ruefully. "As your
father so pointedly mentioned, I'm not considered very bright. The Alorn Kings
won't listen to me. If you leave now, they'll just send someone like Brendig to
apprehend you again."
"Then that unfortunate man may suddenly find himself living out the remainder of
his days as a toad or possibly a radish," Aunt Pol said ominously.
"Enough of that, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "Is there a ship ready, Fulrach?"
"It lies at the north wharf, Belgarath," the king replied. "A Cherek vessel sent
by King Anheg."
"Very well," Mister Wolf said. "Tomorrow then we'll go to Cherek. It seems that
I'm going to have to point out a few things to some thickheaded Alorns. Will you
be going with us?"
"I'm obliged to," Fulrach said. "The council's to be general, and Sendaria's
involved."
"You haven't heard the last of this, Fulrach," Aunt Pol said.
"Never mind, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "He's only doing what he thinks is right.
We'll straighten it all out in Val Alorn."
Garion was trembling as he stepped away from the door. It was impossible. His
skeptical Sendarian upbringing made him at first incapable of even considering
such an absurdity. Reluctantly, however, he finally forced himself to look the
idea full in the face.
What if Mister Wolf really was Belgarath the Sorcerer, a man who had lived for
over seven thousand years? And what if Aunt Pol was really his daughter, Polgara
the Sorceress, who was only slightly younger? All the bits and pieces, the
cryptic hints, the half truths, fell together. Silk had been right; she could
not be his Aunt. Garion's orphaning was complete now. He was adrift in the world
with no ties of blood or heritage to cling to. Desperately he wanted to go home,
back to Faldor's farm, where he could sink himself in unthinking obscurity in a
quiet place where there were no sorcerers or strange searches or anything that
would even remind him of Aunt Pol and the cruel hoax she had made of his life.
Part Two
CHEREK
Chapter Twelve
IN THE GRAY FIRST LIGHT Of early morning they rode through the quiet streets of
Sendar to the harbor and their waiting ship. The finery of the evening before
had been put aside, and they had all resumed their customary clothes. Even King
Fulrach and the Earl of Seline had donned plain garb and now resembled nothing
quite so much as two moderately prosperous Sendars on a business trip. Queen
Layla, who was not to go with them, rode beside her husband, talking earnestly
to him with an expression on her face that seemed almost to hover on the verge
of tears. The party was accompanied by soldiers, cloaked against the raw, chill
wind off the sea.
At the foot of the street which led down from the palace to the harbor, the
stone wharves of Sendar jutted out into the choppy water, and there, rocking and
straining against the hawsers which held her, was their ship. She was a lean
vessel, narrow of beam and high-prowed, with a kind of wolfish appearance that
did little to quiet Garion's nervousness about his first sea voyage. Lounging
about on her deck were a number of savage-looking sailors, bearded and garbed in
shaggy garments made of fur. With the exception of Barak, these were the first
Chereks Garion had ever seen, and his first impression was that they would
probably prove to be totally unreliable.
"Barak!" a burly man halfway up the mast shouted and dropped hand over hand down
a steeply slanting rope to the deck and then jumped across to the wharf.
"Greldik!" Barak roared in response, swung down from his horse and clasped the
evil-looking sailor in a bear hug.
"It would seem that Lord Barak is acquainted with our captain," the Earl of
Seline observed.
"That's disquieting," Silk said wryly. "I was hoping for a sober, sensible
captain of middle years and a conservative disposition. I'm not fond of ships
and sea travel to begin with."
"I'm told that Captain Greldik is one of the finest seamen in all of Cherek,"
the earl assured him.
"My Lord," Silk said with a pained look, "Cherek definitions can be deceptive."
Sourly he watched Barak and Greldik toasting their reunion with tankards of ale
that had been passed down to them from the ship by a grinning sailor.
Queen Layla had dismounted and she embraced Aunt Pol. "Please watch out for my
poor husband, Pol," she said with a little laugh that quivered a bit. "Don't let
those Alorn bullies goad him into doing anything foolish."
"Of course, Layla," Aunt Pol said comfortingly.
"Now, Layla," King Fulrach said in an embarrassed voice. "I'll be all right. I'm
a grown man, after all."
The plump little queen wiped her eyes. "I want you to promise to wear warm
clothes," she said, "and not to sit up all night drinking with Anheg."
"We're on serious business, Layla," the kind said. "There won't be time for any
of that."
"I know Anheg too well," the queen sniffed. She turned to Mister Wolf, stood on
her tiptoes and kissed his bearded cheek. "Dear Belgarath," she said. "When this
is over, promise that you and Pol will come back for a long visit."
"I promise, Layla," Mister Wolf said gravely.
"The tide is turning, Lord King," Greldik said, "and my ship is growing
restless."
"Oh dear," the queen said. She put her arms around the king's neck and buried
her face in his shoulder.
"Now, now," Fulrach said awkwardly.
"If you don't go now, I'm going to cry right here in public," she said, pushing
him away.
The stones of the wharf were slippery, and the slim Cherek ship bobbed and
rolled in the chop. The narrow plank they had to cross heaved and swayed
dangerously, but they all managed to board without accident. The sailors slipped
the hawsers and took their places at the oars. The lean vessel leaped away from
the wharf and moved swiftly into the harbor past the stout and bulky merchantmen
anchored nearby. Queen Layla stood forlornly on the wharf, surrounded by tall
soldiers. She waved a few times and then stood watching, her chin lifted
bravely.
Captain Greldik took his place at the tiller with Barak by his side and signaled
to a squat, muscular warrior crouched nearby. The squat man nodded and pulled a
ragged square of sailcloth off a hide-topped drum.
He began a slow beat, and the oarsmen immediately took up the rhythm. The ship
surged ahead and made for the open sea.
Once they were beyond the protection of the harbor, the swells grew so ponderous
that the ship no longer rocked but ran instead down the back of each wave and up
the face of the next. The long oars, dipping to the rhythm of the sullen drum,
left little swirls on the surface of the waves. The sea was lead-gray beneath
the wintry sky, and the low, snow-covered coastline of Sendaria slid by on their
right, bleak and desolate-looking.
Garion spent most of the day shivering in a sheltered spot near the high prow,
moodily staring out at the sea. The shards and shambles into which his life had
fallen the night before lay in ruins around him. The idea that Wolf was
Belgarath and Aunt Pol was Polgara was of course an absurdity. He was convinced,
however, that a part of the whole thing at least was true. She might not be
Polgara, but she was almost certainly not his Aunt. He avoided looking at her as
much as possible, and did not speak to anyone.
They slept that night in cramped quarters beneath the stern deck of the ship.
Mister Wolf sat talking for a long time with King Fulrach and the Earl of
Seline. Garion covertly watched the old man whose silvery hair and short-cropped
beard seemed almost to glow in the light from a swinging oil lamp hanging from
one of the low beams. He still looked the same as always, and Garion finally
turned over and went to sleep.
The next day they rounded the hook of Sendaria and beat northeasterly with a
good following wind. The sails were raised, and the oarsmen were able to rest.
Garion continued to wrestle with his problem.
On the third day out the weather turned stormy and bitterly cold. The rigging
crackled with ice, and sleet hissed into the sea around them. "If this doesn't
break, it will be a rough passage through the Bore," Barak said, frowning into
the sleet.
"The what?" Durnik asked apprehensively. Durnik was not at all comfortable on
the ship. He was just recovering from a bout of seasickness, and he was
obviously a bit edgy.
"The Cherek Bore," Barak explained. "It's a passage about a league wide between
the northern tip of Sendaria and the southern end of the Cherek peninsula riptides, whirlpools, that sort of thing. Don't be alarmed, Durnik. This is a
good ship, and Greldik knows the secret of navigating the Bore. It may be a bit
rough, but we'll be perfectly safe unless we're unlucky, of course."
"That's a cheery thing to say," Silk observed dryly from nearby. "I've been
trying for three days not to think about the Bore."
"Is it really that bad?" Durnik asked in a sinking voice.
"I make a special point of not going through it sober," Silk told him.
Barak laughed. "You ought to be thankful for the Bore, Silk," he said. "It keeps
the Empire out of the Gulf of Cherek. All Drasnia would be a Tolnedran province
if it wasn't there."
"I admire it politically," Silk said, "but personally I'd be much happier if I
never had to look at it again."
On the following day they anchored near the rocky coast of northern Sendaria and
waited for the tide to turn. In time it slackened and reversed, and the waters
of the Sea of the Winds mounted and plunged through the Bore to raise the level
of the Gulf of Cherek.
"Find something solid to hold on to, Garion," Barak advised as Greldik ordered
the anchor raised. "With this following wind, the passage could be interesting."
He strode along the narrow deck, his teeth gleaming in a broad grin.
It was foolish. Garion knew that, even as he stood up and began to follow the
red-bearded man toward the prow, but four days of solitary brooding over a
problem that refused to yield to any kind of logic made him feel almost
belligerently reckless. He set his teeth together and took hold of a rusted iron
ring embedded in the prow.
Barak laughed and clapped him a stunning blow on the shoulder. "Good boy," he
said approvingly. "We'll stand together and look the Bore right down the
throat."
Garion decided not to answer that.
With wind and tide behind her, Greldik's ship literally flew through the
passage, yawing and shuddering as she was seized by the violent riptides. Icy
spray stung their faces, and Garion, half blinded by it, did not see the
enormous whirlpool in the center of the Bore until they were almost upon it. He
seemed to hear a vast roar and cleared his eyes just in time to see it yawning
in front of him.
"What's that?" he yelled over the noise.
"The Great Maelstrom," Barak shouted. "Hold on."
The Maelstrom was fully as large as the village of Upper Gralt and descended
horribly down into a seething, mist-filled pit unimaginably far below.
Incredibly, instead of guiding his vessel away from the vortex, Greldik steered
directly at it.
"What's he doing?" Garion screamed.
"It's the secret of passing through the Bore," Barak roared. "We circle the
Maelstrom twice to gain more speed. If the ship doesn't break up, she comes out
like a rock from a sling, and we pass through the riptides beyond the Maelstrom
before they can slow us down and drag us back."
"If the ship doesn't what?"
"Sometimes a ship is torn apart in the Maelstrom," Barak said. "Don't worry,
boy. It doesn't happen very often, and Greldik's ship seems stout enough."
The ship's prow dipped hideously into the outer edges of the Maelstrom and then
raced twice around the huge whirlpool with the oarsmen frantically bending their
backs to the frenzied beat of the drum. The wind tore at Garion's face, and he
clung to his iron ring, keeping his eyes averted from the seething maw gaping
below.
And then they broke free and shot like a whistling stone through the churning
water beyond the Maelstrom. The wind of their passage howled in the rigging, and
Garion felt half suffocated by its force.
Gradually the ship slowed in the swirling eddies, but the speed they had gained
from the Maelstrom carried them on to calm water in a partially sheltered cove
on the Sendarian side.
Barak was laughing gleefully and mopping spray from his beard. "Well, lad," he
said, "what do you think of the Bore?"
Garion didn't trust himself to answer and concentrated on trying to pry his numb
fingers from the iron ring.
A familiar voice rang out from the stern.
"Garion!"
"Now you've gone and got me in trouble," Garion said resentfully, ignoring the
fact that standing in the prow had been his own idea. Aunt Pol spoke scathingly
to Barak about his irresponsibility and then turned her attention to Garion.
"Well?" she said. "I'm waiting. Would you like to explain?"
"It wasn't Barak's fault," Garion said. "It was my own idea." There was no point
in their both being in trouble, after all.
"I see," she said. "And what was behind that?"
The confusion and doubt which had been troubling him made him reckless. "I felt
like it," he said, half defiantly. For the first time in his life he felt on the
verge of open rebellion.
"You what?"
"I felt like it," he repeated. "What difference does it make why I did it?
You're going to punish me anyway."
Aunt Pol stiffened, and her eyes blazed.
Mister Wolf, who was sitting nearby, chuckled.
"What's so funny?" she snapped.
"Why don't you let me handle this, Pol?" the old man suggested.
"I can deal with it," she said.
"But not well, Pol," he said. "Not well at all. Your temper's too quick, and
your tongue's too sharp. He's not a child anymore. He's not a man yet, but he's
not a child either. The problem needs to be dealt with in a special way. I'll
take care of it." He stood up. "I think I insist, Pol."
"You what?"
"I insist." His eyes hardened.
"Very well," she said in an icy voice, turned, and walked away. "Sit down,
Garion," the old man said.
"Why's she so mean?" Garion blurted.
"She isn't," Mister Wolf said. "She's angry because you frightened her. Nobody
likes to be frightened."
"I'm sorry," Garion mumbled, ashamed of himself.
"Don't apologize to me," Wolf said. "I wasn't frightened." He looked for a
moment at Garion, his eyes penetrating. "What's the problem?" he asked.
"They call you Belgarath," Garion said as if that explained it all, "and they
call her Polgara."
"So."
"It's just not possible."
"Didn't we have this conversation before? A long time ago?"
"Are you Belgarath?" Garion demanded bluntly.
"Some people call me that. What difference does it make?"
"I'm sorry," Garion said. "I just don't believe it:"
"All right," Wolf shrugged. "You don't have to if you don't want to. What's that
got to do with your being impolite to your Aunt?"
"It's just " Garion faltered. "Well-" Desperately he wanted to ask Mister Wolf
that ultimate, fatal question, but despite his certainty that there was no
kinship between himself and Aunt Pol, he could not bear the thought of having it
finally and irrevocably confirmed.
"You're confused," Wolf said. "Is that it? Nothing seems to be like it ought to
be, and you're angry with your Aunt because it seems like it has to be her
fault."
"You make it sound awfully childish," Garion said, flushing slightly.
"Isn't it?"
Garion flushed even more.
"It's your own problem, Garion," Mister Wolf said. "Do you really think it's
proper to make others unhappy because of it?"
"No," Garion admitted in a scarcely audible voice.
"Your Aunt and I are who we are," Wolf said quietly. "People have made up a lot
of nonsense about us, but that doesn't really matter. There are things that have
to be done, and we're the ones who have to do them. That's what matters. Don't
make things more difficult for your Aunt just because the world isn't exactly to
your liking. That's not only childish, it's ill-mannered, and you're a better
boy than that. Now, I really think you owe her an apology, don't you?"
"I suppose so," Garion said.
"I'm glad we had this chance to talk," the old man said, "but I wouldn't wait
too long before making up with her. You wouldn't believe how long she can stay
angry." He grinned suddenly. "She's been angry with me for as long as I can
remember, and that's so long that I don't even like to think about it."
"I'll do it right now," Garion said.
"Good," Wolf approved.
Garion stood up and walked purposefully to where Aunt Pol stood staring out at
the swirling currents of the Cherek Bore.
"Aunt Pol," he said.
"Yes, dear?"
"I'm sorry. I was wrong."
She turned and looked at him gravely.
"Yes," she said, "you were."
"I won't do it again."
She laughed then, a low, warm laugh, and ran her fingers through his tangled
hair. "Don't make promises you can't keep, dear," she said, and she embraced
him, and everything was all right again.
After the fury of the tide through the Cherek Bore had abated, they sailed north
along the snow-mufled east coast of the Cherek peninsula toward the ancient city
which was the ancestral home of all Alorns, Algar and Drasnian as well as Cherek
and Rivan. The wind was chill and the skies threatening, but the remainder of
the voyage was uneventful. After three more days their ship entered the harbor
at Val Alorn and tied up at one of the ice-shrouded wharves.
Val Alorn was unlike any Sendarian city. Its walls and buildings were so
incredibly ancient that they seemed more like natural rock formations than the
construction of human hands. The narrow, crooked streets were clogged with snow,
and the mountains behind the city loomed high and white against the dark sky.
Several horse-drawn sleighs awaited them at the wharf with savagelooking drivers
and shaggy horses stamping impatiently in the packed snow. There were fur robes
in the sleighs, and Garion drew one of them about him as he waited for Barak to
conclude his farewells to Greldik and the sailors.
"Let's go," Barak told the driver as he climbed into the sleigh. "See if you
can't catch up with the others."
"If you hadn't talked so long, they wouldn't be so far ahead, Lord Barak," the
driver said sourly.
"That's probably true," Barak agreed.
The driver grunted, touched his horses with his whip, and the sleigh started up
the street where the others had already disappeared. Fur-clad Cherek warriors
swaggered up and down the narrow streets, and many of them bellowed greetings to
Barak as the sleigh passed. At one corner their driver was forced to halt while
two burly men, stripped to the waist in the biting cold, wrestled savagely in
the snow in the center of the street to the encouraging shouts of a crowd of
onlookers.
"A common pastime," Barak told Garion. "Winter's a tedious time in Val Alorn."
"Is that the palace ahead?" Garion asked.
Barak shook his head. "The temple of Belar," he said. "Some men say that the
Bear-God resides there in spirit. I've never seen him myself, though, so I can't
say for sure."
Then the wrestlers rolled out of the way, and they continued.
On the steps of the temple an ancient woman wrapped in ragged woolen robes stood
with a long staff clutched in one honey hand and her stringy hair wild about her
face. "Hail, Lord Barak," she called in a cracked voice as they passed. "Thy
Doom still awaits thee."
"Stop the sleigh," Barak growled at the driver, and he threw off his fur robe
and jumped to the ground. "Martje," he thundered at the old woman. "You've been
forbidden to loiter here. If I tell Anheg that you've disobeyed him, he'll have
the priests of the temple burn you for a witch."
The old woman cackled at him, and Garion noted with a shudder that her eyes were
milk-white blankness.
"The fire will not touch old Martje," she laughed shrilly. "That is not the Doom
which awaits her."
"Enough of dooms," Barak said. "Get away from the temple."
"Martje sees what she sees," the old woman said. "The mark of thy Doom is still
upon thee, great Lord Barak. When it comes to thee, thou shalt remember the
words of old Martje." And then she seemed to look at the sleigh where Garion
sat, though her milky eyes were obviously blind. Her expression suddenly changed
from malicious glee to one strangely awestruck.
"Hail, greatest of Lords," she crooned, bowing deeply. "When thou comest into
throe inheritance, remember that it was old Martje who first greeted thee."
Barak started toward her with a roar, but she scurried away, her staff tapping
on the stone steps.
"What did she mean?" Garion asked when Barak returned to the sleigh.
"She's a crazy woman," Barak replied, his face pale with anger. "She's always
lurking around the temple, begging and frightening gullible housewives with her
gibberish. If Anheg had any sense, he'd have had her driven out of the city or
burned years ago." He climbed back into the sleigh. "Let's go," he growled at
the driver.
Garion looked back over his shoulder as they sped away, but the old blind woman
was nowhere in sight.
Chapter Thirteen
THE PALACE OF KING ANHEG Of Cherek was a vast, brooding structure near the
center of Val Alorn. Huge wings, many of them crumbled into decay with unpaned
windows staring emptily at the open sky through collapsed roofs, stretched out
from the main building in all directions. So far as Garion could tell there was
no plan to the palace whatsoever. It had, it seemed, merely grown over the three
thousand years and more that the kings of Cherek had ruled there.
"Why is so much of it empty and broken down like that?" he asked Barak as their
sleigh whirled into the snow-packed courtyard.
"What some kings build, other kings let fall down," Barak said shortly. "It's
the way of kings." Barak's mood had been black since their encounter with the
blind woman at the temple.
The others had all dismounted and stood waiting.
"You've been away from home too long if you can get lost on the way from the
harbor to the palace," Silk said pleasantly.
"We were delayed," Barak grunted.
A broad, ironbound door at the top of the wide steps that led up to the palace
opened then as if someone behind it had been waiting for them all to arrive. A
woman with long flaxen braids and wearing a deep scarlet cloak trimmed with rich
fur stepped out onto the portico at the top of the stairs and stood looking down
at them. "Greetings, Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim and husband," she said
formally.
Barak's face grew even more somber. "Merel," he acknowledged with a curt nod.
"King Anheg granted me permission to greet you, my Lord," Barak's wife said, "as
is my right and my duty."
"You've always been most attentive to your duties, Merel," Barak said. "Where
are my daughters?"
"At Trellheim, my Lord," she said. "I didn't think it would be a good idea for
them to travel so far in the cold." There was a faintly malicious note in her
voice.
Barak sighed. "I see," he said.
"Was I in error, my Lord?" Merel asked.
"Let it pass," Barak said.
"If you and your friends are ready, my Lord," she said, "I'll escort you to the
throne room."
Barak went up the stairs, briefly and rather formally embraced his wife, and the
two of them went through the wide doorway.
"Tragic," the Earl of Seline murmured, shaking his head as they all went up the
stairs to the palace door.
"Hardly that," Silk said. "After all, Barak got what he wanted, didn't he?"
"You're a cruel man, Prince Kheldar," the earl said.
"Not really," Silk said. "I'm a realist, that's all. Barak spent all those years
yearning after Merel, and now he's got her. I'm delighted to see such
steadfastness rewarded. Aren't you?"
The Earl of Seline sighed.
A party of mailed warriors joined them and escorted them through a maze of
corridors, up broad stairs and down narrow ones, deeper and deeper into the vast
pile.
"I've always admired Cherek architecture," Silk said sardonically. "It's so
unanticipated."
"Expanding the palace gives weak kings something to do," King Fulrach observed.
"It's not a bad idea, really. In Sendaria bad kings usually devote their time to
street-paving projects, but all of Val Alorn was paved thousands of years ago."
Silk laughed. "It's always been a problem, your Majesty," he said. "How do you
keep bad kings out of mischief?"
"Prince Kheldar," King Fulrach said, "I don't wish your uncle any misfortune,
but I think it might be very interesting if the crown of Drasnia just happened
to fall to you."
"Please, your Majesty," Silk said with feigned shock, "don't even suggest that."
"Also a wife," the Earl of Seline said slyly. "The prince definitely needs a
wife."
"That's even worse," Silk said with a shudder.
The throne room of King Anheg was a vaulted chamber with a great fire pit in the
center where whole logs blazed and crackled. Unlike the lushly draped hall of
King Fulrach, the stone walls here were bare, and torches flared and smoked in
iron rings sunk in the stone. The men who lounged near the fire were not the
elegant courtiers of Fulrach's court, but rather were bearded Cherek warriors,
gleaming in chain mail. At one end of the room sat five thrones, each surmounted
by a banner. Four of the thrones were occupied, and three regal-looking women
stood talking nearby.
"Fulrach, King of Sendaria!" one of the warriors who had escorted them boomed,
striking the butt of his spear hollowly on the rush-strewn stone floor.
"Hail, Fulrach," a large, black-bearded man on one of the thrones called, rising
to his feet. His long blue robe was wrinkled and spotted, and his hair was
shaggy and unkempt. The gold crown he wore was dented in a place or two, and one
of its points had been broken off
"Hail, Anheg," the King of the Sendars replied, bowing slightly. "Thy throne
awaits thee, my dear Fulrach," the shaggy-haired man said, indicating the banner
of Sendaria behind the one vacant throne. "The Kings of Aloria welcome the
wisdom of the King of Sendaria at this council."
Garion found the stilted, archaic form of address strangely impressive.
"Which king is which, friend Silk?" Durnik whispered as they approached the
thrones.
"The fat one in the red robe with the reindeer on his banner is my uncle, Rhodar
of Drasnia. The lean-faced one in black under the horse banner is Cho-Hag of
Algaria. The big, grim-faced one in gray with no crown who sits beneath the
sword banner is Brand, the Rivan Warder."
"Brand?" Garion interrupted, startled as he remembered the stories of the Battle
of Vo Mimbre.
"All Rivan Warders are named Brand," Silk explained.
King Fulrach greeted each of the other kings in the formal language that seemed
to be customary, and then he took his place beneath the green banner with its
golden sheaf of wheat that was the emblem of Sendaria.
"Hail Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur," Anheg said, "and hail Lady Polgara, honored
daughter of immortal Belgarath."
"There's little time for all this ceremony, Anheg," Mister Wolf said tartly,
throwing back his cloak and striding forward. "Why have the Kings of Aloria
summoned me?"
"Permit us our little ceremonies, Ancient One," Rhodar, the grossly fat King of
Drasnia said slyly. "We so seldom have the chance to play king. We won't be much
longer at it."
Mister Wolf shook his head in disgust.
One of the three regal-looking women came forward then. She was a tall,
raven-haired beauty in an elaborately cross-tied black velvet gown. She curtsied
to King Fulrach and touched her cheek briefly to his. "Your Majesty," she said,
"your presence honors our home."
"Your Highness," Fulrach replied, inclining his head respectfully.
"Queen Islena," Silk murmured to Durnik and Garion, "Anheg's wife." The little
man's nose twitched with suppressed mirth. "Watch her when she greets Polgara."
The queen turned and curtsied deeply to Mister Wolf. "Divine Belgarath," she
said, her rich voice throbbing with respect.
"Hardly divine, Islena," the old man said dryly.
"Immortal son of Aldur," she swept on, ignoring the interruption, "mightiest
sorcerer in all the world. My poor house trembles at the awesome power you bring
within its walls."
"A pretty speech, Islena," Wolf said. "A little inaccurate, but pretty all the
same."
But the queen had already turned to Aunt Pol. "Glorious sister," she intoned.
"Sister?" Garion was startled.
"She's a mystic," Silk said softly. "She dabbles a bit in magic and thinks of
herself as a sorceress. Watch."
With an elaborate gesture the queen produced a green jewel and presented it to
Aunt Pol.
"She had it up her sleeve," Silk whispered gleefully.
"A royal gift, Islena," Aunt Pol said in a strange voice. "A pity that I can
only offer this in return." She handed the queen a single deep red rose.
"Where did she get that?" Garion asked in amazement. Silk winked at him.
The queen looked at the rose doubtfully and cupped it between her two hands. She
examined it closely, and her eyes widened. The color drained out of her face,
and her hands began to tremble.
The second queen had stepped forward. She was a tiny blonde with a beautiful
smile. Without ceremony she kissed King Fulrach and then Mister Wolf and
embraced Aunt Pol warmly. Her affection seemed simple and unselfconscious.
"Porenn, Queen of Drasnia," Silk said, and his voice had an odd note to it.
Garion glanced at him and saw the faintest hint of a bitter, self mocking
expression flicker across his face. In that single instant, as clearly as if it
had suddenly been illuminated by a bright light, Garion saw the reason for
Silk's sometimes strange manner. An almost suffocating surge of sympathy welled
up in his throat.
The third queen, Silar of Algaria, greeted King Fulrach, Mister Wolf and Aunt
Pol with a few brief words in a quiet voice.
"Is the Rivan Warder unmarried?" Durnik asked, looking around for another queen.
"He had a wife," Silk said shortly, his eyes still on Queen Porenn, "but she
died some years ago. She left him four sons."
"Ah," Durnik said.
Then Barak, grim-faced and obviously angry, entered the hall and strode to King
Anheg's throne.
"Welcome home, cousin," King Anheg said. "I thought perhaps you'd lost your
way."
"Family business, Anheg," Barak said. "I had to have a few words with my wife."
"I see," Anheg said and let it drop.
"Have you met our friends?" Barak asked.
"Not as yet, Lord Barak," King Rhodar said. "We were involved with the customary
formalities." He chuckled, and his great paunch jiggled. "I'm sure you all know
the Earl of Seline," Barak said, "and this is Durnik, a smith and a brave man.
The boy's name is Garion. He's in Lady Polgara's care - a good lad."
"Do you suppose we could get on with this?" Mister Wolf asked impatiently.
Cho-Hag, King of the Algars, spoke in a strangely soft voice. "Are thou aware,
Belgarath, of the misfortune which hath befallen us? We turn to thee for
counsel."
"Cho-Hag," Wolf said testily, "you sound like a bad Arendish epic. Is all this
theeing and thouing really necessary?"
Cho-Hag looked embarrassed and glanced at King Anheg.
"My fault, Belgarath," Anheg said ruefully. "I set scribes to work to record our
meetings. Cho-Hag was speaking to history as well as to you." His crown had
slipped a bit and perched precariously over one ear.
"History's very tolerant, Anheg," Wolf said. "You don't have to try to impress
her. She'll forget most of what we say anyway." He turned to the Rivan Warder.
"Brand," he said, "do you suppose you could explain all this without too much
embellishment?"
"I'm afraid it's my fault, Belgarath," the gray-robed Warder said in a deep
voice. "The Apostate was able to carry off his theft because of my laxity."
"The thing's supposed to protect itself, Brand," Wolf told him. "You can't even
touch it. I know the thief, and there's no way you could have kept him out of
Riva. What concerns me is how he was able to lay hands on it without being
destroyed by its power."
Brand spread his hands helplessly. "We woke one morning, and it was gone. The
priests were only able to divine the name of the thief. The Spirit of the
Bear-God wouldn't say any more. Since we knew who he was, we were careful not to
speak his name or the name of the thing he took."
"Good," Wolf said. "He has ways to pick words out of the air at great distances.
I taught him how to do that myself."
Brand nodded. "We knew that," he said. "It made phrasing our message to you
difficult. When you didn't come to Riva and my messenger didn't return, I
thought something had gone wrong. That's when we sent men out to find you."
Mister Wolf scratched at his beard. "I guess it's my own fault that I'm here
then," he said. "I borrowed your messenger. I had to get word to some people in
Arendia. I suppose I should have known better."
Silk cleared his throat. "May I speak?" he asked politely.
"Certainly, Prince Kheldar," King Anheg said.
"Is it entirely prudent to continue these discussions in public?" Silk asked.
"The Murgos have enough gold to buy ears in many places, and the arts of the
Grolims can lift the thoughts out of the minds of the most loyal warriors. What
isn't known can't be revealed, if you take my meaning."
"The warriors of Anheg aren't so easily bought, Silk," Barak said testily, "and
there aren't any Grolims in Cherek."
"Are you also confident about the serving men and the kitchen wenches?" Silk
suggested. "And I've found Grolims in some very unexpected places."
"There's something in what my nephew says," King Rhodar said, his face
thoughtful. "Drasnia has centuries of experience in the gathering of
information, and Kheldar is one of our best. If he thinks that our words might
go further than we'd want them to, we might be wise to listen to him."
"Thank you, uncle," Silk said, bowing.
"Could you penetrate this palace, Prince Kheldar?" King Anheg challenged.
"I already have, your Majesty," Silk said modestly, "a dozen times or more."
Anheg looked at Rhodar with one raised eyebrow.
Rhodar coughed slightly. "It was some time ago, Anheg. Nothing serious. I was
just curious about something, that's all."
"All you had to do was ask," Anheg said in a slightly injured tone.
"I didn't want to bother you," Rhodar said with a shrug. "Besides, it's more fun
to do it the other way."
"Friends," King Fulrach said, "the issue before us is too important to chance
compromising it. Wouldn't it be better to be overcautious rather than take any
risks?"
King Anheg frowned and then shrugged. "Whatever you wish," he said. "We'll
continue in private then. Cousin, would you clear old King Eldrig's hall for us
and set guards in the hallways near it?"
"I will, Anheg," Barak said. He took a dozen warriors and left the hall.
The kings rose from their thrones-all except Cho-Hag. A lean warrior, very
nearly as tall as Barak and with the shaved head and flowing scalp lock of the
Algars, stepped forward and helped him up.
Garion looked inquiringly at Silk.
"An illness when he was a child," Silk explained softly. "It left his legs so
weak that he can't stand unaided."
"Doesn't that make it kind of hard for him to be king?" Garion asked.
"Algars spend more time sitting on horses than they do standing on their feet,"
Silk said. "Once he's on a horse, Cho-Hag's the equal of any man in Algaria. The
warrior who's helping him is Hettar, his adopted son."
"You know him?" Garion asked.
"I know everyone, Garion." Silk laughed softly. "Hettar and I have met a few
times. I like him, though I'd rather he didn't know that."
Queen Porenn came over to where they stood. "Islena's taking Silar and me to her
private quarters," she said to Silk. "Apparently women aren't supposed to be
involved in matters of state here in Cherek."
"Our Cherek cousins have a few blind spots, your Highness," Silk said. "They're
arch-conservatives, of course, and it hasn't occurred to them yet that women are
human."
Queen Porenn winked at him with a sly little grin. "I'd hoped that we might get
a chance to talk, Kheldar, but it doesn't look like it now. Did you get my
message to Layla?"
Silk nodded. "She said she'd write to you immediately," he said. "If we'd known
you were going to be here, I could have carried her letter myself."
"It was Islena's idea," she said. "She decided that it might be nice to have a
council of queens while the kings were meeting. She'd have invited Layla too,
but everyone knows how terrified she is of sea travel."
"Has your council produced anything momentous, Highness?" Silk asked lightly.
Queen Porenn made a face. "We sit around and watch Islena do tricks -
disappearing coins, things up her sleeves, that kind of thing," she said. "Or
she tells fortunes. Silar's too polite to object, and I'm the youngest, so I'm
not supposed to say too much. It's terribly dull, particularly when she goes
into trances over that stupid crystal ball of hers. Did Layla think she could
help me?"
"If anyone can," Silk assured her. "I should warn you, though, that her advice
is likely to be quite explicit. Queen Layla's an earthy little soul, and
sometimes very blunt."
Queen Porenn giggled wickedly. "That's all right," she said. "I'm a grown woman,
after all."
"Of course," Silk said. "I just wanted to prepare you, that's all."
"Are you making fun of me, Kheldar?" she asked.
"Would I do that, your Highness?" Silk asked, his face full of innocence.
"I think you would," she said.
"Coming, Porenn?" Queen Islena asked from not far away.
"At once, your Highness," the queen of Drasnia said. Her fingers flickered
briefly at Silk. What a bore.
Patience, Highness, Silk gestured in reply.
Queen Porenn docilely followed the stately Queen of Cherek and the silent Queen
of Algaria from the hall. Silk's eyes followed her, and his face had that same
self mocking expression as before.
"The others are leaving," Garion said delicately and pointed to the far end of
the hall where the Alorn Kings were just going out the door.
"All right," Silk said and led the way quickly after them.
Garion stayed at the rear of the group as they all made their way through the
drafty corridors toward King Eldrig's hall. The dry voice in his mind told him
that if Aunt Pol saw him, she'd probably find a reason to send him away.
As he loitered along at the rear of the procession, a furtive movement flickered
briefly far down one of the side corridors. He caught only one glimpse of the
man, an ordinary-looking Cherek warrior wearing a dark green cloak, and then
they had moved past that corridor. Garion stopped and stepped back to look
again, but the man in the green cloak was gone.
At the door to King Eldrig's hall, Aunt Pol stood waiting with her arms crossed.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"I was just looking," he said as innocently as possible.
"I see," she said. Then she turned to Barak. "The council's probably going to
last for a long time," she said, "and Garion's just going to get restless before
it's over. Is there someplace where he can amuse himself until suppertime?"
"Aunt Pol!" Garion protested.
"The armory, perhaps?" Barak suggested.
"What would I do in an armory?" Garion demanded.
"Would you prefer the scullery?" Aunt Pol asked pointedly.
"On second thought, 1 think I might like to see the armory."
"I thought you might."
"It's at the far end of this corridor, Garion," Barak said. "The room with the
red door."
"Run along, dear," Aunt Pol said, "and try not to cut yourself on anything."
Garion sulked slowly down the corridor Barak had pointed out to him, keenly
feeling the injustice of the situation. The guards posted in the passageway
outside King Eldrig's hall even made eavesdropping impossible. Garion sighed and
continued his solitary way toward the armory.
The other part of his mind was busy, however, mulling over certain problems.
Despite his stubborn refusal to accept the possibility that Mister Wolf and Aunt
Pol were indeed Belgarath and Polgara, the behavior of the Alorn Kings made it
obvious that they at least did believe it. Then there was the question of the
rose Aunt Pol had given to Queen Islena. Setting aside the fact that roses do
not bloom in the winter, how had Aunt Pol known that Islena would present her
with that green jewel and therefore prepared the rose in advance? He
deliberately avoided the idea that his Aunt had simply created the rose on the
spot.
The corridor along which he passed, deep in thought, was dim, with only a few
torches set in rings on the walls to light the way. Side passages branched out
from it here and there, gloomy, unlighted openings that stretched back into the
darkness. He had almost reached the armory when he heard a faint sound in one of
those dark passages. Without knowing exactly why, he drew back into one of the
other openings and waited.
The man in the green cloak stepped out into the lighted corridor and looked
around furtively. He was an ordinary-looking man with a short, sandy beard, and
he probably could have walked anywhere in the palace without attracting much
notice. His manner, however, and his stealthy movements cried out louder than
words that he was doing something he was not supposed to be doing. He hurried up
the corridor in the direction from which Garion had come, and Garion shrank back
into the protective darkness of his hiding place. When he carefully poked his
head out into the corridor again, the man had disappeared, and it was impossible
to know down which of those dark side passageways he had gone.
Garion's inner voice told him that even if he told anyone about this, they
wouldn't listen. He'd need more than just an uneasy feeling of suspicion to
report if he didn't want to appear foolish. All he could do for the time being
was to keep his eyes open for the man in the green cloak.
Chapter Fourteen
IT WAS SNOWING the following morning, and Aunt Pol, Silk, Barak, and Mister Wolf
again met for council with the kings, leaving Garion in Durnik's keeping. The
two sat near the fire in the huge hall with the thrones, watching the two dozen
or so bearded Cherek warriors who lounged about or engaged in various activities
to pass the time. Some of them sharpened their swords or polished their armor;
others ate or sat drinking-even though it was still quite early in the morning;
several were engaged in a heated dice game; and some simply sat with their backs
against the wall and slept.
"These Chereks seem to be very idle people," Durnik said quietly to Garion. "I
haven't seen anyone actually working since we arrived, have you?"
Garion shook his head. "I think these are the king's own warriors," he said just
as quietly. "I don't think they're supposed to do anything except sit around and
wait for the king to tell them to go fight someone."
Durnik frowned disapprovingly. "It must be a terribly boring way to live," he
said.
"Durnik," Garion asked after a moment, "did you notice the way Barak and his
wife acted toward each other?"
"It's very sad," Durnik said. "Silk told me about it yesterday. Barak fell in
love with her when they were both very young, but she was highborn and didn't
take him very seriously."
"How does it happen that they're married, then?" Garion asked.
"It was her family's idea," Durnik explained. "After Barak became the Earl of
Trellheim, they decided that a marriage would give them a valuable connection.
Merel objected, but it didn't do her any good. Silk said that Barak found out
after they were married that she's really a very shallow person, but of course
it was too late by then. She does spiteful things to try to hurt him, and he
spends as much time away from home as possible."
"Do they have any children?" Garion asked.
"Two," Durnik said. "Both girls - about five and seven. Barak loves them very
much, but he doesn't get to see them very often."
Garion sighed. "I wish there was something we could do," he said.
"We can't interfere between a man and his wife," Durnik said. "Things like that
just aren't done."
"Did you know that Silk's in love with his aunt?" Garion said without stopping
to think.
"Garion!" Durnik's voice was shocked. "That's an unseemly thing to say."
"It's true all the same," Garion said defensively. "Of course she's not really
his aunt, I guess. She's his uncle's second wife. It's not exactly like she was
his real aunt."
"She's married to his uncle," Durnik said firmly. "Who made up this scandalous
story?"
"Nobody made it up," Garion said. "I was watching his face when he talked to her
yesterday. It's pretty plain the way he feels about her."
"I'm sure you just imagined it," Durnik said disapprovingly. He stood up. "Let's
look around. That will give us something better to do than sit here gossiping
about our friends. It's really not the sort of thing decent men do."
"All right," Garion agreed quickly, a little embarrassed. He stood up and
followed Durnik across the smoky hall and out into the corridor. "Let's have a
look at the kitchen," Garion suggested.
"And the smithy, too," Durnik said.
The royal kitchens were enormous. Entire oxen roasted on spits, and whole flocks
of geese simmered in lakes of gravy. Stews bubbled in cartsized cauldrons, and
battalions of loaves were marched into ovens big enough to stand in. Unlike Aunt
Pol's well-ordered kitchen at Faldor's farm, everything here was chaos and
confusion. The head cook was a huge man with a red face who screamed orders
which everyone ignored. There were shouts and threats and a great deal of
horseplay. A spoon heated in a fire and left where an unsuspecting cook would
pick it up brought shrieks of mirth, and one man's hat was stolen and
deliberately thrown into a seething pot of stew.
"Let's go someplace else, Durnik," he said. "This isn't what I expected at all."
Durnik nodded. "Mistress Pol would never tolerate all of this foolishness," he
agreed disapprovingly.
In the hallways outside the kitchen a maid with reddish-blond hair and a pale
green dress cut quite low at the bodice loitered.
"Excuse me," Durnik said to her politely, "could you direct us to the smithy?"
She looked him up and down boldly. "Are you new here?" she asked. "I haven't
seen you before."
"We're just visiting," Durnik said.
"Where are you from?" she demanded.
"Sendaria," Durnik said.
"How interesting. Perhaps the boy could run this errand for you, and you and I
could talk for a while." Her look was direct.
Durnik coughed, and his ears reddened. "The smithy?" he asked again.
The maid laughed lightly. "In the courtyard at the end on this corridor," she
said. "I'm usually around here someplace. I'm sure you can find me when you
finish your business with the smith."
"Yes," Durnik said, "I'm sure I could. Come along, Garion."
They went on down the corridor and out into a snowy inner courtyard.
"Outrageous!" Durnik said stiffly, his ears still flaming. "The girl has no
sense of propriety whatsoever. I'd report her if I knew to whom."
"Shocking," Garion agreed, secretly amused by Durnik's embarrassment. They
crossed the courtyard through the lightly sifting snow.
The smithy was presided over by a huge, black-bearded man with forearms as big
as Garion's thighs. Durnik introduced himself and the two were soon happily
talking shop to the accompaniment of the ringing blows of the smith's hammer.
Garion noticed that instead of the plows, spades, and hoes that would fill a
Sendarian smithy, the walls here were hung with swords, spears, and war axes. At
one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean,
one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger.
Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning
while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at
their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters,
saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of
King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded
man in the green cloak he'd seen the night before. It wasn't likely that the man
would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the
same.
About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall
where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game.
"Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon," Barak said. "I've
got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along."
"That might not be a bad idea," Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. "Your
cousin's warriors dice badly, and I'm tempted to try a few rolls with them. It
would probably be better if I didn't. Most men take offense at losing to
strangers."
Barak grinned. "I'm sure they'd be glad to let you play, Silk," he said.
"They've got just as much chance of winning as you do."
"Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east,"
Silk said.
"Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.
"I'm sure of theirs." Silk chuckled. He jumped up. "Let's go," he said. "My
fingers are starting to itch. Let's get them away from temptation."
"Anything you say, Prince Kheldar." Barak laughed.
They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and
the wind was brisk.
"I'm a bit confused by all these names," Durnik said as they trudged toward the
central part of Val Alorn. "I've been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk,
are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister
Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the Duchess
of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name."
"Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what's most
suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes
or strange names. Those of us who aren't so honest, however, occasionally have
to change one or the other."
"I don't find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest,"
Durnik said stifliy.
"No disrespect intended," Silk assured him. "Simple definitions don't apply to
Lady Polgara; and when I say that we're not honest, I simply mean that this
business we're in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are
evil as well as devious."
Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass.
"Let's take this street," Barak suggested. "I don't want to pass the Temple of
Belar today."
"Why?" Garion asked.
"I'm a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a pained look,
"and I'd rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is
very penetrating, and I don't like being called down in front of the whole city.
A prudent man doesn't give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold
him in public."
The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses
were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent
snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed
in furs against the chill.
There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two
elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with snowballs in the middle
of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders.
"They're old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this every day all
winter long. Pretty soon they'll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old
songs together until they fall off their benches. They've been doing it for
years now."
"What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked.
"They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the
benches stays the same, though."
"Hello, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are
you coming to see me again?"
Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn't answer.
"That lady's talking to you, Barak," Garion said.
"I heard her," Barak replied shortly.
"She seems to know you," Silk said with a sly look.
"She knows everyone," Barak said, flushing even more. "Shall we move along?"
Around another corner a group of men dressed in shaggy furs shufted along in
single file. Their gait was a kind of curious swaying from side to side, and
people quickly made way for them.
"Hail, Lord Barak," their leader intoned.
"Hail, Lord Barak," the others said in unison, still swaying. Barak bowed
stitpy.
"May the arm of Belar protect thee," the leader said. "All praise to Belar,
Bear-God of Aloria," the others said. Barak bowed again and stood until the
procession had passed.
"Who were they?" Durnik asked.
"Bear-cultists," Barak said with distaste. "Religious fanatics."
"A troublesome group," Silk explained. "They have chapters in all the Alorn
kingdoms. They're excellent warriors, but they're the instruments of the High
Priest of Belar. They spend their time in rituals, military training, and
interfering in local politics."
"Where's this Aloria they spoke of?" Garion asked.
"All around us," Barak said with a broad gesture. "Aloria used to be all the
Alorn kingdoms together. They were all one nation. The cultists want to reunite
them."
"That doesn't seem unreasonable," Durnik said.
"Aloria was divided for a reason," Barak said. "A certain thing had to be
protected, and the division of Aloria was the best way to do that."
"Was this thing so important?" Durnik asked.
"It's the most important thing in the world," Silk said. "The Bearcultists tend
to forget that."
"Only now it's been stolen, hasn't it?" Garion blurted as that dry voice in his
mind informed him of the connection between what Barak and Silk had just said
and the sudden disruption of his own life. "It's this thing that Mister Wolf is
following."
Barak glanced quickly at him. "The lad is wiser than we thought, Silk," he said
soberly.
"He's a clever boy," Silk agreed, "and it's not hard to put it all together."
His weasel face was grave. "You're right, of course, Garion," he said. "We don't
know how yet, but somebody's managed to steal it. If Belgarath gives the word,
the Alorn Kings will take the world apart stone by stone to get it back."
"You mean war?" Durnik said in a sinking voice.
"There are worse things than war," Barak said grimly. "It might be a good
opportunity to dispose of the Angaraks once and for all."
"Let's hope that Belgarath can persuade the Alorn Kings otherwise," Silk said.
"The thing has to be recovered," Barak insisted.
"Granted," Silk agreed, "but there are other ways, and I hardly think a public
street's the place to discuss our alternatives."
Barak looked around quickly, his eyes narrowing.
They had by then reached the harbor where the masts of the ships of Cherek rose
as thickly as trees in a forest. They crossed an icy bridge over a frozen stream
and came to several large yards where the skeletons of ships lay in the snow.
A limping man in a leather smock came from a low stone building in the center of
one of the yards and stood watching their approach.
"Ho, Krendig," Barak called.
"Ho, Barak," the man in the leather smock replied.
"How does the work go?" Barak asked.
"Slowly in this season," Krendig said. "It's not a good time to work with wood.
My artisans are fashioning the fittings and sawing the boards, but we won't be
able to do much more until spring."
Barak nodded and walked over to lay his hand on the new wood of a ship prow
rising out of the snow. "Krendig is building this for me," he said, patting the
prow. "She'll be the finest ship afloat."
"If your oarsmen are strong enough to move her," Krendig said. "She'll be very
big, Barak, and very heavy."
"Then I'll man her with big men," Barak said, still gazing at the ribs of his
ship.
Garion heard a gleeful shout from the hillside above the shipyard and looked up
quickly. Several young people were sliding down the hill on smooth planks. It
was obvious that Barak and the others were going to spend most of the rest of
the afternoon discussing the ship. While that might be all very interesting,
Garion realized that he hadn't spoken with anyone his own age for a long time.
He drifted away from the others and stood at the foot of the hill, watching.
One blond girl particularly attracted his eye. In some ways she reminded him of
Zubrette, but there were some differences. Where Zubrette had been petite, this
girl was as big as a boy - though she was noticeably not a boy. Her laughter
rang out merrily, and her cheeks were pink in the cold afternoon air as she slid
down the hill with her long braids flying behind her.
"That looks like fun," Garion said as her improvised sled came to rest nearby.
"Would you like to try?" she asked, getting up and brushing the snow from her
woolen dress.
"I don't have a sled," he told her.
"I might let you use mine," she said, looking at him archly, "if you give me
something."
"What would you want me to give you?" he asked.
"We'll think of something," she said, eyeing him boldly. "What's your name?"
"Garion," he said.
"What an odd name. Do you come from here?"
"No. I'm from Sendaria."
"A Sendar? Truly?" Her blue eyes twinkled. "I've never met a Sendar before. My
name is Maidee."
Garion inclined his head slightly.
"Do you want to use my sled?" Maidee asked.
"I might like to try it," Garion said.
"I might let you," she said, "for a kiss."
Garion blushed furiously, and Maidee laughed.
A large red-haired boy in a long tunic slid to a stop nearby and rose with a
menacing look on his face.
"Maidee, come away from there," he ordered.
"What if I don't want to?" she asked.
The red-haired boy swaggered toward Garion.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I was talking with Maidee," Garion said.
"Who gave you permission?" the red-haired boy asked. He was a bit taller than
Garion and somewhat heavier.
"I didn't bother to ask permission," Garion said.
The red-haired boy glowered, flexing his muscles threateningly.
"I can thrash you if I like," he announced.
Garion realized that the redhead was feeling belligerent and that a fight was
inevitable. The preliminaries-threats, insults and the likewould probably go on
for several more minutes, but the fight would take place as soon as the boy in
the long tunic had worked himself up to it. Garion decided not to wait. He
doubled his fist and punched the larger boy in the nose.
The blow was a good one, and the redhead stumbled back and sat down heavily in
the snow. He raised one hand to his nose and brought it away bright red.
"It's bleeding!" he wailed accusingly. "You made my nose bleed."
"It'll stop in a few minutes," Garion said.
"What if it doesn't?"
"Nose bleeds don't last forever," Garion told him.
"Why did you hit me?" the redhead demanded tearfully, wiping his nose. "I didn't
do anything to you."
"You were going to," Garion said. "Put snow on it, and don't be such a baby."
"It's still bleeding," the boy said.
"Put snow on it," Garion said again.
"What if it doesn't stop bleeding?"
"Then you'll probably bleed to death," Garion said in a heartless tone. It was a
trick he had learned from Aunt Pol. It worked as well on the Cherek boy as it
had on Doroon and Rundorig. The redhead blinked at him and then took a large
handful of snow and held it to his nose.
"Are all Sendars so cruel?" Maidee asked.
"I don't know all the people in Sendaria," Garion said. The affair hadn't turned
out well at all, and regretfully he turned and started back toward the shipyard.
"Garion, wait," Maidee said. She ran after him and caught him by the arm. "You
forgot my kiss," she said, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly
on the lips.
"There," she said, and she turned and ran laughing back up the hill, her blond
braids flying behind her.
Barak, Silk and Durnik were all laughing when he returned to where they stood.
"You were supposed to chase her," Barak said.
"What for?" Garion asked, flushing at their laughter.
"She wanted you to catch her."
"I don't understand."
"Barak," Silk said, "I think that one of us is going to have to inform the Lady
Polgara that our Garion needs some further education."
"You're skilled with words, Silk," Barak said. "I'm sure you ought to be the one
to tell her."
"Why don't we throw dice for the privilege?" Silk suggested.
"I've seen you throw dice before, Silk." Barak laughed.
"Of course we could simply stay here a while longer," Silk said slyly. "I rather
imagine that Garion's new playmate would be quite happy to complete his
education, and that way we wouldn't have to bother Lady Polgara about it."
Garion's ears were flaming. "I'm not as stupid as all that," he said hotly. "I
know what you're talking about, and you don't have to say anything to Aunt Pol
about it." He stamped away angrily, kicking at the snow.
After Barak had talked for a while longer with his shipbuilder and the harbor
had begun to darken with the approach of evening, they started back toward the
palace. Garion sulked along behind, still offended by their laughter. The clouds
which had hung overhead since their arrival in Val Alorn had begun to tatter,
and patches of clear sky began to appear. Here and there single stars twinkled
as evening slowly settled in the snowy streets. The soft light of candles began
to glow in the windows of the houses, and the few people left in the streets
hurried to get home before dark.
Garion, still loitering behind, saw two men entering a wide door beneath a crude
sign depicting a cluster of grapes. One of them was the sandy-bearded man in the
green cloak that he had seen in the palace the night before. The other man wore
a dark hood, and Garion felt a familiar tingle of recognition. Even though he
couldn't see the hooded man's face, there was no need of that. They had looked
at each other too often for there to be any doubt. As always before, Garion felt
that peculiar restraint, almost like a ghostly finger touching his lips. The
hooded man was Asharak, and, though the Murgo's presence here was very
important, it was for some reason impossible for Garion to speak of it. He
watched the two men only for a moment and then hurried to catch up with his
friends. He struggled with the compulsion that froze his tongue, and then tried
another approach.
"Barak," he asked, "are there many Murgos in Val Alorn?"
"There aren't any Murgos in Cherek," Barak said. "Angaraks aren't allowed in the
kingdom on pain of death. It's our oldest law. It was laid down by old Cherek
Bear-shoulders himself. Why do you ask?"
"I was just wondering," Garion said lamely. His mind shrieked with the need to
tell them about Asharak, but his lips stayed frozen.
That evening, when they were all seated at the long table in King Anheg's
central hall with a great feast set before them, Barak entertained them with a
broadly exaggerated account of Garion's encounter with the young people on the
hillside.
"A great blow it was," he said in expansive tones, "worthy of the mightiest
warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and
the enemy was dismayed and overcome. Like a hero, Garion stood over the
vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent,
but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson flood. With simple dignity
then, he quit the field, but the brighteyed maid would not let him depart
unrewarded for his valor. Hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy
arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is
the true hero's greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste
bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed
and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid's fond
demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting
victory but tenderly declining victory's true compensation."
The warriors and kings at the long table roared with laughter and pounded the
table and their knees and each others' backs in their glee. Queen Islena and
Queen Silar smiled tolerantly, and Queen Porenn laughed openly. Lady Merel,
however, remained stony-faced, her expression faintly contemptuous as she looked
at her husband.
Garion sat with his face aflame, his ears besieged with shouted suggestions and
advice.
"Is that really the way it happened, nephew?" King Rhodar demanded of Silk,
wiping tears from his eyes.
"More or less," Silk replied. "Lord Barak's telling was masterly, though a good
deal embellished."
"We should send for a minstrel," the Earl of Seline said. "This exploit should
be immortalized in song."
"Don't tease him," Queen Porenn said, looking sympathetically at Garion.
Aunt Pol did not seem amused. Her eyes were cold as she looked at Barak.
"Isn't it odd that three grown men can't keep one boy out of trouble?" she asked
with a raised eyebrow.
"It was only one blow, my Lady," Silk protested, "and only one kiss, after all."
"Really?" she said. "And what's it going to be next time? A duel with swords,
perhaps, and even greater foolishness afterward?"
"There was no real harm in it, Mistress Pol," Durnik assured her. Aunt Pol shook
her head. "I thought you at least had good sense, Durnik," she said, "but now I
see that I was wrong."
Garion suddenly resented her remarks. It seemed that no matter what he did, she
was ready to take it in the worst possible light. His resentment flared to the
verge of open rebellion. What right had she to say anything about what he did?
There was no tie between them, after all, and he could do anything he wanted
without her permission if he felt like it. He glared at her in sullen anger.
She caught the look and returned it with a cool expression that seemed almost to
challenge him. "Well?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said shortly.
Chapter Fifteen
THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and crisp. The sky was a deep blue, and the
sunlight was dazzling on the white mountaintops that rose behind the city. After
breakfast, Mister Wolf announced that he and Aunt Pol would again meet privately
that day with Fulrach and the Alorn Kings.
"Good idea," Barak said. "Gloomy ponderings are good for kings. Unless one has
regal obligations, however, it's much too fine a day to be wasted indoors." He
grinned mockingly at his cousin.
"There's a streak of cruelty in you that I hadn't suspected, Barak," King Anheg
said, glancing longingly out a nearby window.
"Do the wild boars still come down to the edges of the forest?" Barak asked.
"In droves," Anheg replied even more disconsolately.
"I thought I might gather a few good men and go out and see if we can thin their
numbers a bit," Barak said, his grin even wider now.
"I was almost sure you had something like that in mind," Anheg said moodily,
scratching at his unkempt hair.
"I'm doing you a service, Anheg," Barak said. "You don't want your kingdom
overrun with the beasts, do you?"
Rhodar, the fat King of Drasnia, laughed hugely. "I think he's got you, Anheg,"
he said.
"He usually does," Anheg agreed sourly.
"I gladly leave such activities to younger and leaner men," Rhodar said. He
slapped his vast paunch with both hands. "I don't mind a good supper, but I'd
rather not have to fight with it first. I make too good a target. The blindest
boar in the world wouldn't have much trouble finding me."
"Well, Silk," Barak said, "what do you say?"
"You're not serious," Silk said.
"You must go along, Prince Kheldar," Queen Porenn insisted. "Someone has to
represent the honor of Drasnia in this venture."
Silk's face looked pained.
"You can be my champion," she said, her eyes sparkling.
"Have you been reading Arendish epics again, your Highness?" Silk asked acidly.
"Consider it a royal command," she said. "Some fresh air and exercise won't hurt
you. You're starting to look dyspeptic."
Silk bowed ironically. "As you wish, your Highness," he said. "I suppose that if
things get out of hand I can always climb a tree."
"How about you, Durnik?" Barak asked.
"I don't know much about hunting, friend Barak," Durnik said doubtfully, "but
I'll come along if you like."
"My Lord?" Barak asked the Earl of Seline politely.
"Oh, no, Lord Barak." Seline laughed. "I outgrew my enthusiasm for such sport
years ago. Thanks for the invitation, however."
"Hettar?" Barak asked the rangy Algar. Hettar glanced quickly at his father.
"Go along, Hettar," Cho-Hag said in his soft voice. "I'm sure King Anheg will
lend me a warrior to help me walk."
"I'll do it myself, Cho-Hag," Anheg said. "I've carned heavier burdens."
"I'll go with you then, Lord Barak," Hettar said. "And thanks for asking me."
His voice was deep and resonant, but very soft, much like that of his father.
"Well, lad?" Barak asked Garion.
"Have you lost your wits entirely, Barak?" Aunt Pol snapped. "Didn't you get him
into enough trouble yesterday?"
That was the last straw. The sudden elation he'd felt at Barak's invitation
turned to anger. Garion gritted his teeth and threw away all caution. "If Barak
doesn't think I'll just be in the way, I'll be glad to go along," he announced
defiantly.
Aunt Pol stared at him, her eyes suddenly very hard.
"Your cub is growing teeth, Pol." Mister Wolf chuckled.
"Be still, father," Aunt Pol said, still glaring at Garion.
"Not this time, Miss," the old man said with a hint of iron in his voice. "He's
made his decision, and you're not going to humiliate him by unmaking it for him.
Garion isn't a child now. You may not have noticed, but he's almost man high and
filling out now. He'll soon be fifteen, Pol. You're going to have to relax your
grip sometime, and now's as good a time as any to start treating him like a
man."
She looked at him for a moment.
"Whatever you say, father," she said at last with deceptive meekness. "I'm sure
we'll want to discuss this later, though-in private."
Mister Wolf winced.
Aunt Pol looked at Garion then. "Try to be careful, dear," she said, "and when
you come back, we'll have a nice long talk, won't we?"
"Will my Lord require my aid in arming himself for the hunt?" Lady Merel asked
in the stilted and insulting manner she always assumed with Barak.
"That won't be necessary, Merel," Barak said.
"I would not neglect any of my duties," she said.
"Leave it alone, Merel," Barak said. "You've made your point."
"Have I my Lord's permission then to withdraw?" she asked.
"You have," he said shortly.
"Perhaps you ladies would like to join me," Queen Islena said. "We'll cast
auguries and see if we can predict the outcome of the hunt."
Queen Porenn, who stood somewhat behind the Queen of Cherek, rolled her eyes
upward in resignation.
Queen Silar smiled at her.
"Let's go then," Barak said. "The boars are waiting."
"Sharpening their tusks, no doubt," Silk said.
Barak led them down to the red door of the armory where they were joined by a
grizzled man with enormously broad shoulders who wore a bullhide shirt with
metal plates sewn on it.
"This is Torvik," Barak introduced the grizzled man, "Anheg's chief huntsman. He
knows every boar in the forest by his first name."
"My Lord Barak is overkind," Torvik said, bowing.
"How does one go about this hunting of boars, friend Torvik?" Durnik asked
politely. "I've never done it before."
"It's a simple thing," Torvik explained. "I take my huntsmen into the forest and
we drive the beasts with noise and shouting. You and the other hunters wait for
them with these." He gestured at a rack of stout, broad-headed boar spears.
"When the boar sees you standing in his way, he charges you and tries to kill
you with his tusks, but instead you kill him with your spear."
"I see," Durnik said somewhat doubtfully. "It doesn't sound very complicated."
"We wear mail shirts, Durnik," Barak said. "Our hunters are hardly ever injured
seriously."
" `Hardly ever' has an uncomfortable ring of frequency to it, Barak," Silk said,
fingering a mail shirt hanging on a peg by the door.
"No sport is very entertaining without a certain element of risk." Barak
shrugged, hefting a boar spear.
"Have you ever thought of throwing dice instead?" Silk asked.
"Not with your dice, my friend." Barak laughed.
They began pulling on mail shirts while Torvik's huntsmen carried several
armloads of boar spears out to the sleighs waiting in the snowy courtyard of the
palace.
Garion found the mail shirt heavy and more than a little uncomfortable. The
steel rings dug at his skin even through his heavy clothes, and every time he
tried to shift his posture to relieve the pressure of one of them, a half dozen
others bit at him. The air was very cold as they climbed into the sleighs, and
the usual fur robes seemed hardly adequate.
They drove through the narrow, twisting streets of Val Alorn toward the great
west gate on the opposite side of the city from the harbor. The breath of the
horses steamed in the icy air as they rode.
The ragged old blind woman from the temple stepped from a doorway as they passed
in the bright morning sun. "Hail, Lord Barak," she croaked. "Thy Doom is at
hand. Thou shalt taste of it before this day's sun finds its bed."
Without a word Barak rose in his sleigh, took up a boar spear and cast it with
deadly accuracy full at the old woman.
With surprising speed, the witch-woman swung her staff and knocked the spear
aside in midair. "It will avail thee not to try to kill old Martje." She laughed
scornfully. "Thy spear shall not find her, neither shall thy sword. Go thou,
Barak. Thy Doom awaits thee." And then she turned toward the sleigh in which
Garion sat beside the startled Durnik. "Hail, Lord of Lords," she intoned. "Thy
peril this day shall be great, but thou shall survive it. And it is thy peril
which shall reveal the mark of the beast which is the Doom of thy friend Barak."
And then she bowed and scampered away before Barak could lay his hands on
another spear.
"What was that about, Garion?" Durnik asked, his eyes still surprised.
"Barak says she's a crazy old blind woman," Garion said. "She stopped us when we
arrived in Val Alorn after you and the others had already passed."
"What was all that talk about Doom?" Durnik asked with a shudder.
"I don't know," Garion said. "Barak wouldn't explain it."
"It's a bad omen so early in the day," Durnik said. "These Chereks are a strange
people."
Garion nodded in agreement.
Beyond the west gate of the city were open fields, sparkling white in the full
glare of the morning sun. They crossed the fields toward the dark edge of the
forest two leagues away with great plumes of powdery snow flying out behind
their racing sleighs.
Farmsteads lay muffled in snow along their track. The buildings were all made of
logs and had high-peaked wooden roofs.
"These people seem to be indifferent to danger," Durnik said. "I certainly
wouldn't want to live in a wooden house - what with the possibility of fire and
all."
"It's a different country, after all," Garion said. "We can't expect the whole
world to live the way we do in Sendaria."
"I suppose not," Durnik sighed, "but I'll tell you, Garion, I'm not very
comfortable here. Some people just aren't meant for travel. Sometimes I wish
we'd never left Faldor's farm."
"I do too, sometimes," Garion admitted, looking at the towering mountains that
seemed to rise directly out of the forest ahead. "Someday it will be over,
though, and we'll be able to go home again."
Durnik nodded and sighed once more.
By the time they had entered the woods, Barak had regained his temper and his
good spirits, and he set about placing the hunters as if nothing had happened.
He led Garion through the calf deep snow to a large tree some distance from the
narrow sleigh track.
"This is a good place," he said. "There's a game trail here, and the boars may
use it to try to escape the noise of Torvik and his huntsmen. When one comes,
brace yourself and hold your spear with its point aimed at his chest. They don't
see very well, and he'll run full into your spear before he even knows it's
there. After that it's probably best to jump behind a tree. Sometimes the spear
makes them very angry."
"What if I miss?" Garion asked.
"I wouldn't do that," Barak advised. "It's not a very good idea."
"I didn't mean that I was going to do it on purpose," Garion said. "Will he try
to get away from me or what?"
"Sometimes they'll try to run," Barak said, "but I wouldn't count on it. More
likely he'll try to split you up the middle with his tusks. At that point it's
usually a good idea to climb a tree."
"I'll remember that," Garion said.
"I won't be far away if you have trouble," Barak promised, handing Garion a pair
of heavy spears. Then he trudged back to his sleigh, and they all galloped off,
leaving Garion standing alone under the large oak tree.
It was shadowy among the dark tree trunks, and bitingly cold. Garion walked
around a bit through the snow, looking for the best place to await the boar. The
trail Barak had pointed out was a beaten path winding back through the dark
brush, and Garion found the size of the tracks imprinted in the snow on the path
alarmingly large. The oak tree with low-spreading limbs began to look very
inviting, but he dismissed that thought angrily. He was expected to stand on the
ground and meet the charge of the boar, and he decided that he would rather die
than hide in a tree like a frightened child.
The dry voice in his mind advised him that he spent far too much time worrying
about things like that. Until he was grown, no one would consider him a man, so
why should he go to all the trouble of trying to seem brave when it wouldn't do
any good anyway?
The forest was very quiet now, and the snow muffled all sounds. No bird sang,
and there was only the occasional padded thump of snow sliding from overloaded
branches to the earth beneath. Garion felt terribly alone. What was he doing
here? What business had a good, sensible Sendarian boy here in the endless
forests of Cherek, awaiting the charge of a savage wild pig with only a pair of
unfamiliar spears for company?
What had the pig ever done to him? He realized that he didn't even particularly
like the taste of pork.
He was some distance from the beaten forest track along which their sleighs had
passed, and he set his back to the oak tree, shivered, and waited.
He didn't realize how long he had been listening to the sound when he became
fully aware of it. It was not the stamping, squealing rush of a wild boar he had
been expecting but was, rather, the measured pace of several horses moving
slowly along the snow-carpeted floor of the forest, and it was coming from
behind him. Cautiously he eased his face around the tree.
Three riders, muffled in furs, emerged from the woods on the far side of the
sleigh-churned track. They stopped and sat waiting. Two of them were bearded
warriors, little different from dozens of others Garion had seen in King Anheg's
palace. The third man, however, had long, flaxencolored hair and wore no beard.
His face had the sullen, pampered look of a sPolled child, although he was a man
of middle years, and he sat his horse disdainfully as if the company of the
other two somehow offended him.
After a time, the sound of another horse came from near the edge of the forest.
Almost holding his breath, Garion waited. The other rider slowly approached the
three who sat their horses in the snow at the edge of the trees. It was the
sandy-bearded man in the green cloak whom Garion had seen creeping through the
passageways of King Anheg's palace two nights before.
"My Lord," the green-cloaked man said deferentially as he joined the other
three.
"Where have you been?" the flaxen-haired man demanded.
"Lord Barak took some of his guests on a boar hunt this morning. His route was
the same as mine, and I didn't want to follow too closely."
The nobleman grunted sourly.
"We saw them deeper in the wood," he said. "Well, what have you heard?"
"Very little, my Lord. The kings are meeting with the old man and the woman in a
guarded chamber. I can't get close enough to head what they're saying."
"I'm paying you good gold to get close enough. I have to know what they're
saying. Go back to the palace and work out a way to hear what they're talking
about."
"I'll try, my Lord," the green-cloaked man said, bowing somewhat stifliy.
"You'll do more than try," the flaxen-haired man snapped.
"As you wish, my Lord," the other said, starting to turn his horse.
"Wait," the nobleman commended. "Were you able to meet with our friend?"
"Your friend, my Lord," the other corrected with distaste. "I met him, and we
went to a tavern and talked a little."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing very useful. His kind seldom do."
"Will he meet us as he said he would?"
"He told me that he would. If you want to believe him, that's your affair."
The nobleman ignored that.
"Who arrived with the King of the Sendars?"
"The old man and the woman, another old man-some Sendarian noble, I think, Lord
Barak and a weasel-faced Drasnian, and another Sendar - a commoner of some
sort."
"That's all? Wasn't there a boy with them as well?"
The spy shrugged.
"I didn't think the boy was important," he said.
"He's there then-in the palace?"
"He is, my Lord-an ordinary Sendarian boy of about fourteen, I'd judge. He seems
to be some kind of servant to the woman."
"Very well. Go back to the palace and get close enough to that chamber to hear
what the kings and the old man are saying."
"That may be very dangerous, my Lord."
"It'll be more dangerous if you don't. Now go, before that ape Barak comes back
and finds you loitering here." He whirled his horse and, followed by his two
warriors, plunged back into the forest on the far side of the snowy track that
wound among the dark trees.
The man in the green cloak sat grimly watching for a moment, then he too turned
his horse and rode back the way he had come.
Garion rose from his crouched position behind the tree. His hands were clenched
so tightly around the shaft of his spear that they actually ached. This had gone
entirely too far, he decided. The matter must be brought to someone's attention.
And then, some way ofi in the snowy depths of the wood, he heard the sound of
hunting horns and the steely clash of swords ringing rhythmically on shields.
The huntsmen were coming, driving all the beasts of the forest before them.
He heard a crackling in the bushes, and a great stag bounded into view, his eyes
wild with fright and his antlers flaring above his head. With three huge leaps
he was gone. Garion trembled with excitement.
Then there was a squealing rush, and a red-eyed sow plunged down the trail
followed by a half dozen scampering piglets. Garion stepped behind his tree and
let them pass.
The next squeals were deeper and rang less with fright than with rage. It was
the boar-Garion knew that before the beast even broke out of the heavy brush.
When the boar appeared, Garion felt his heart quail.
This was no fat, sleepy porker, but rather a savage, infuriated beast. The
horrid tusks jutting up past the flaring snout were yellow, and bits of twigs
and bark clung to them, mute evidence that the boar would slash at anything in
his path-trees, bushes or a Sendarian boy without sense enough to get out of his
way.
Then a peculiar thing happened. As in the long-ago fight with Rundorig or in the
scuffle with Brill's hirelings in the dark streets of Muros, Garion felt his
blood begin to surge, and there was a wild ringing in his ears. He seemed to
hear a defiant, shouted challenge and could scarcely accept the fact that it
came from his own throat. He suddenly realized that he was stepping into the
middle of the trail and crouching with his spear braced and leveled at the
massive beast.
The boar charged. Red-eyed and frothing from the mouth, with a deep-throated
squeal of fury, he plunged at the waiting Garion. The powdery snow sprayed up
from his churning hooves like foam from the prow of a ship.The snow crystals
seemed to hang in the air, sparkling in a single ray of sunlight that chanced
just there to reach the forest floor.
The shock as the boar hit the spear was frightful, but Garion's aim was good.
The broad-bladed spearhead penetrated the coarsely haired chest, and the white
froth dripping from the boar's tusks suddenly became bloody foam. Garion felt
himself driven back by the impact, his feet slipping out from under him, and
then the shaft of his spear snapped like a dry twig and the boar was on him.
The first slashing, upward-ripping blow of the boar's tusks took Garion full in
the stomach, and he felt the wind whoosh out of his lungs. The second slash
caught his hip as he tried to roll, gasping, out of the way. His chain-mail
shirt deflected the tusks, saving him from being wounded, but the blows were
stunning. The boar's third slash caught him in the back, and he was flung
through the air and crashed into a tree. His eyes filled with shimmering light
as his head banged against the rough bark.
And then Barak was there, roaring and charging through the snowbut somehow it
seemed not to be Barak. Garion's eyes, glazed from the shock of the blow to his
head, looked uncomprehendingly at something that could not be true. It was
Barak, there could be no doubt of that, but it was also something else. Oddly,
as if somehow occupying the same space as Barak, there was also a huge, hideous
bear. The images of the two figures crashing through the snow were superimposed,
their movements identical as if in sharing the same space they also shared the
same thoughts.
Huge arms grasped up the wriggling, mortally wounded boar and crushed in upon
it. Bright blood fountained from the boar's mouth, and the shaggy, half man
thing that seemed to be Barak and something else at the same time raised the
dying pig and smashed it brutally to the ground. The man-thing lifted its awful
face and roared in earthshaking triumph as the light slid away from Garion's
eyes and he felt himself drifting down into the gray well of unconsciousness.
There was no way of knowing how much time passed until he came to in the sleigh.
Silk was applying a cloth filled with snow to the back of his neck as they flew
across the glaring white fields toward Val Alorn.
"I see you've decided to live." Silk grinned at him.
"Where's Barak?" Garion mumbled groggily.
"In the sleigh behind us," Silk said, glancing back.
"Is he-all right?"
"What could hurt Barak?" Silk asked.
"I mean -,does he seem like himself?"
"He seems like Barak to me." Silk shrugged. "No, boy, lie still. That wild pig
may have cracked your ribs." He placed his hands on Garion's chest and gently
held him down.
"My boar?" Garion demanded weakly. "Where is it?"
"The huntsmen are bringing it," Silk said. "You'll get your triumphal entry. If
I might suggest it, however, you should give some thought to the virtue of
constructive cowardice. These instincts of yours could shorten your life."
But Garion had already slipped back into unconsciousness.
And then they were in the palace, and Barak was carrying him, and Aunt Pol was
there, white-faced at the sight of all the blood.
"It's not his," Barak assured her quickly. "He speared a boar, and it bled on
him while they were tussling. I think the boy's all right - a little rap on the
head is all."
"Bring him," Aunt Pol said curtly and led the way up the stairs toward Garion's
room.
Later, with his head and chest wrapped and a foul-tasting cup of Aunt Pol's
brewing making him light-headed and sleepy, Garion lay in his bed listening as
Aunt Pol finally turned on Barak.
"You great overgrown dolt," she raged. "Do you see what all your foolishness has
done?"
"The lad is very brave," Barak said, his voice low and sunk in a kind of bleak
melancholy.
"Brave doesn't interest me," Aunt Pol snapped. Then she stopped. "What's the
matter with you?" she demanded. She reached out suddenly and put her hands on
the sides of the huge man's head. She looked for a moment into his eyes and then
slowly released him. "Oh," she said softly, "it finally happened, I see."
"I couldn't control it, Polgara," Barak said in misery.
"It'll be all right, Barak," she said, gently touching his bowed head.
"It'll never be all right again," Barak said.
"Get some sleep," she told him. "It won't seem so bad in the morning."
The huge man turned and quietly left the room.
Garion knew they were talking about the strange thing he had seen when Barak had
rescued him from the boar, and he wanted to ask Aunt Pol about it; but the
bitter drink she had given him pulled him down into a deep and dreamless sleep
before tIe could put the words together to ask the question.
Chapter Sixteen
THE NEXT DAY Garion was too stiff and sore to even think about getting out of
bed. A stream of visitors, however, kept him too occupied to think about his
aches and pains. The visits from the Alorn Kings in their splendid robes were
particularly flattering, and each of them praised his courage. Then the queens
came and made a great fuss over his injuries, offering warm sympathy and gentle,
stroking touches to his forehead. The combination of praise, sympathy and the
certain knowledge that he was the absolute center of attention was overwhelming,
and his heart was full.
The last visitor of the day, however, was Mister Wolf, who came when evening was
creeping through the snowy streets of Val Alorn. The old man wore his usual
tunic and cloak, and his hood was turned up as if he had been outside.
"Have you seen my boar, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked proudly.
"An excellent animal," Wolf said, though without much enthusiasm, "but didn't
anyone tell you it's customary to jump out of the way after the boar has been
speared?"
"I didn't really think about it," Garion admitted, "but wouldn't that seem well - cowardly?"
"Were you that concerned about what a pig might think of you?"
"Well," Garion faltered, "not really, I guess."
"You're developing an amazing lack of good sense for one so young," Wolf
observed. "It normally takes years and years to reach the point you seem to have
arrived at overnight." He turned to Aant Pol, who sat nearby. "Polgara, are you
quite certain that there's no hint of Arendish blood in our Garion's background?
He's been behaving most Arendish lately. First he rides the Great Maelstrom like
a rocking horse, and then he tries to break a wild boar's tusks with his ribs.
Are you sure you didn't drop him on his head when he was a baby?"
Aunt Pol smiled, but said nothing.
"I hope you recover soon, boy," Wolf said, "and try to give some thought to what
I've said."
Garion sulked, mortally offended by Mister Wolf's words. Tears welled up in his
eyes despite all his efforts to control them.
"Thank you for stopping by, Father," Aunt Pol said.
"It's always a pleasure to call on you, my daughter," Wolf said and quietly left
the room.
"Why did he have to talk to me like that?" Garion burst out, wiping his nose.
"Now he's gone and spoiled it all."
"Spoiled what, dear?" Aunt Pol asked, smoothing the front of her gray dress.
"All of it," Garion complained. "The kings all said I was very brave."
"Kings say things like that," Aunt Pol said. "I wouldn't pay too much attention,
if I were you."
"I was brave, wasn't I?"
"I'm sure you were, dear," she said. "And I'm sure the pig was very impressed."
"You're as bad as Mister Wolf is," Garion accused.
"Yes, dear," she said, "I suppose I probably am, but that's only natural. Now,
what would you like for supper?"
"I'm not hungry," Garion said defiantly.
"Really? You probably need a tonic then. I'll fix you one."
"I think I've changed my mind," Garion said quickly.
"I rather thought you might," Aunt Pol said. And then, without explanation, she
suddenly put her arms around him and held him close to her for a long time.
"What am I going to do with you?" she said finally.
"I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he assured her.
"This time perhaps," she said, taking his face between her hands. "It's a
splendid thing to be brave, my Garion, but try once in a while to think a little
bit first. Promise me."
"All right, Aunt Pol," he said, a little embarrassed by all this. Oddly enough
she still acted as if she really cared about him. The idea that there could
still be a bond between them even if they were not related began to dawn on him.
It could never be the same, of course, but at least it was something. He began
to feel a little better about the whole thing.
The next day he was able to get up. His muscles still ached a bit, and his ribs
were somewhat tender, but he was young and was healing fast. About midmorning he
was sitting with Durnik in the great hall of Anheg's palace when the
silvery-bearded Earl of Seline approached them.
"King Fulrach wonders if you would be so kind as to join us in the council
chamber, Goodman Durnik," he said politely.
"Me, your Honor?" Durnik asked incredulously.
"His Majesty is most impressed with your sensibility," the old gentleman said.
"He feels that you represent the very best of Sendarian practicality. What we
face involves all men, not just the Kings of the West, and so it's only proper
that good, solid common sense be represented in our proceedings."
"I'll come at once, your Honor," Durnik said, getting up quickly, "but you'll
have to forgive me if I say very little."
Garion waited expectantly.
"We've all heard of your adventure, my boy," the Earl of Seline said pleasantly
to Garion. "Ah, to be young again," he sighed. "Coming, Durnik?"
"Immediately, your Honor," Durnik said, and the two of them made their way out
of the great hall toward the council chamber.
Garion sat alone, wounded to the quick by his exclusian. He was at an age where
his self esteem was very tender, and inwardly he writhed at the lack of regard
implicit in his not being invited to join them. Hurt and offended, he sulkily
left the great hall and went to visit his boar which hung in an ice-filled
cooling room just oti the kitchen. At least the boar had taken him seriously.
One could, however, spend only so much time in the company of a dead pig without
becoming depressed. The boar did not seem nearly so big as he had when he was
alive and charging, and the tusks were impressive but neither so long nor so
sharp as Garion remembered them. Besides, it was cold in the cooling room and
sore muscles stiffened quickly in chilly places.
There was no point in trying to visit Barak. The red-bearded man had locked
himself in his chamber to brood in blackest melancholy and refused to answer his
door, even to his wife. And so Garion, left entirely on his own, moped about for
a while and then decided that he might as well explore this vast palace with its
dusty, unused chambers and dark, twisting corridors. He walked for what seemed
hours, opening doors and following hallways that sometimes ended abruptly
against blank stone walls.
The palace of Anheg was enormous, having been, as Barak had explained, some
three thousand years and more in construction. One southern wing was so totally
abandoned that its entire roof had fallen in centuries ago. Garion wandered
there for a time in the second-floor corridors of the ruin, his mind filled with
gloomy thoughts of mortality and transient glory as he looked into rooms where
snow lay thickly on ancient beds and stools and the tiny tracks of mice and
squirrels ran everywhere. And then he came to an unroofed corridor where there
were other tracks, those of a man. The footprints were quite fresh, for there
was no sign of snow in them and it had snowed heavily the night before. At first
he thought the tracks might be his own and that he had somehow circled and come
back to a corridor he had already explored, but the footprints were much larger
than his.
There were a dozen possible explanations, of course, but Garion felt his breath
quicken. The man in the green cloak was still lurking about the palace, Asharak
the Murgo was somewhere in Val Alorn, and the flaxen-haired nobleman was hiding
somewhere in the forest with obviously unfriendly intentions.
Garion realized that the situation might be dangerous and that he was unarmed
except for his small dagger. He retraced his steps quickly to a snowy chamber he
had just explored and took down a rusty sword from a peg where it had hung
forgotten for uncountable years. Then, feeling a bit more secure, he returned to
follow the silent tracks.
So long as the path of the unknown intruder lay in that roofless and
long-abandoned corridor, following him was simplicity itself; the undisturbed
snow made tracking easy. But once the trail led over a heap of fallen debris and
into the gaping blackness of a dusty corridor where the roof was still intact,
things became a bit more difficult. The dust on the floor helped, but it was
necessary to do a great deal of stooping and bending over. Garion's ribs and
legs were still sore, and he winced and grunted each time he had to bend down to
examine the stone floor. In a very short while he was sweating and gritting his
teeth and thinking about giving the whole thing up.
Then he heard a faint sound far down the corridor ahead. He shrank back against
the wall, hoping that no light from behind him would filter dimly through to
allow him to be seen. Far ahead, a figure passed stealthily through the pale
light from a single tiny window. Garion caught a momentary flicker of green and
knew finally whom he was following. He kept close to the wall and moved with
catlike silence in his soft leather shoes, the rusty sword gripped tightly in
his hand. If it had not been for the startling nearness of the voice of the Earl
of Seline, however, he would probably have walked directly into the man he had
been following.
"Is it at all possible, noble Belgarath, that our enemy can be awakened before
all the conditions of the ancient prophecy are met?" the earl was asking.
Garion stopped. Directly ahead of him in a narrow embrasure in the wall of the
corridor, he caught sight of a slight movement. The green cloaked man lurked
there, listening in the dimness to the words that seemed to come from somewhere
beneath. Garion shrank back against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe.
Carefully he stepped backward until he found another embrasure and drew himself
into the concealing darkness.
"A most appropriate question, Belgarath," the quiet voice of ChoHag of the
Algars said. "Can this Apostate use the power now in his hands to revive the
Accursed One?"
"The power is there," the familiar voice of Mister Wolf said, "but he might be
afraid to use it. If it isn't done properly, the power will destroy him. He
won't rush into such an act, but will think very carefully before he tries it.
It's that hesitation that gives us the little bit of time we have."
Then Silk spoke. "Didn't you say that he might want the thing for himself? Maybe
he plans to leave his Master in undisturbed slumber and use the power he's
stolen to raise himself as king in the lands of the Angaraks."
King Rhodar of Drasnia chuckled. "Somehow I don't see the Grolim Priesthood so
easily relinquishing their power in the lands of Angarak and bowing down to an
outsider. The High Priest of the Grolims is no mean sorcerer himself, I'm told."
"Forgive me, Rhodar," King Anheg said, "but if the power is in the thief's
hands, the Grolims won't have any choice but to accept his dominion. I've
studied the power of this thing, and if even half of what I've read is true, he
can use it to rip down Rak Cthol as easily as you'd kick apart an anthill. Then,
if they still resist, he could depopulate all of Cthol Murgos from Rak Goska to
the Tolnedran border. No matter what, however, whether it's the Apostate or the
Accursed One who eventually raises that power, the Angaraks will follow and they
will come west."
"Shouldn't we inform the Arends and Tolnedrans-and the Ulgos as well-what has
happened then?" Brand, the Rivan Warder, asked. "Let's not be taken by surprise
again."
"I wouldn't be in too much hurry to rouse our southern neighbors," Mister Wolf
said. "When Pol and I leave here, we'll be moving south. If Arendia and Tolnedra
are mobilizing for war, the general turmoil would only hinder us. The Emperor's
legions are soldiers. They can respond quickly when the need arises, and the
Arends are always ready for war. The whole kingdom hovers on the brink of
general warfare all the time."
"It's premature," Aunt Pol's familiar voice agreed. "Armies would just get in
the way of what we're trying to do. If we can apprehend my father's old pupil
and return the thing he pilfered to Riva, the crisis will be past. Let's not
stir up the southerners for nothing."
"She's right," Wolf said. "There's always a risk in a mobilization. A king with
an army on his hands often begins to think of mischief. I'll advise the King of
the Arends at Vo Mimbre and the Emperor at Tol Honeth of as much as they need to
know as I pass through. But we should get word through to the Gorim of Ulgo.
Cho-Hag, do you think you could get a messenger through to Prolgu at this time
of the year?"
"It's hard to say, Ancient One," Cho-Hag said. "The passes into those mountains
are difficult in the winter. I'll try, though."
"Good," Wolf said. "Beyond that, there's not much more we can do. For the time
being it might not be a bad idea to keep this matter in the family-so to speak.
If worse comes to worst and the Angaraks invade again, Aloria at least will be
armed and ready. There'll be time for Arendia and the Empire to make their
preparations."
King Fulrach spoke then in a troubled voice. "It's easy for the Alorn Kings to
talk of war," he said. "Alorns are warriors; but my Sendaria is a peaceful
kingdom. We don't have castles or fortified keeps, and my people are farmers and
tradesmen. Kal Torak made a mistake when he chose the battlefield at Vo Mimbre;
and it's not likely that the Angaraks will make the same mistake again. I think
they'll strike directly across the grasslands of northern Algaria and fall upon
Sendaria. We have a lot of food and very few soldiers. Our country would provide
an ideal base for a campaign in the west, and I'm afraid that we'd fall quite
easily."
Then, to Garion's amazement, Durnik spoke. "Don't cheapen the men of Sendaria
so, Lord King," he said in a firm voice. "I know my neighbors, and they'll
fight. We don't know very much about swords and lances, but we'll fight. If
Angaraks come to Sendaria, they won't find the taking as easy as some might
imagine, and if we put torches to the fields and storehouses there won't be all
that much food for them to eat."
There was a long silence, and then Fulrach spoke again in a voice strangely
humble. "Your words shame me, Goodman Durnik," he said. "Maybe I've been king
for so long that I've forgotten what it means to be a Sendar."
"One remembers that there are only a few passes leading through the western
escarpment into Sendaria," Hettar, the son of King Cho-Hag, said quietly. "A few
avalanches in the right places could make Sendaria as inaccessible as the moon.
If the avalanches took place at the right times, whole armies of Angaraks might
find themselves trapped in those narrow corridors."
"Now that's an entertaining thought." Silk chuckled. "Then we could let Durnik
put his incendiary impulses to a better use than burning turnip patches. Since
Torak One-eye seems to enjoy the smell of burning sacrifices so much, we might
be able to accommodate him."
Far down the dusty passageway in which he was hiding, Garion caught the sudden
flicker of a torch and heard the faint jingling of several mail shirts. He
almost failed to recognize the danger until the last instant. The man in the
green cloak also heard the sounds and saw the light of the torch. He stepped
from his hiding place and fled back the way he had come-directly past the
embrasure where Garion had concealed himself. Garion shrank back, clutching his
rusty sword; but as luck had it, the man was looking back over his shoulder at
the twinkling torch as he ran by on soft feet.
As soon as he had passed, Garion also slipped out of his hiding place and fled.
The Cherek warriors were looking for intruders, and it might be difficult to
explain what he was doing in the dark hallway. He briefly considered following
the spy again, but decided that he'd had enough of that for one day. It was time
to tell someone about the things he'd seen. Someone had to be told-someone to
whom the kings would listen. Once he reached the more frequented corridors of
the palace, he firmly began to make his way toward the chamber where Barak
brooded in silent melancholy.
Chapter Seventeen
"BARAK," GARION CALLED through the door after he had knocked for several minutes
without any answer.
"Go away," Barak's voice came thickly through the door.
"Barak, it's me, Garion. I have to talk with you."
There was a long silence inside the room, and finally a slow movement. Then the
door opened.
Barak's appearance was shocking. His tunic was rumpled and stained. His red
beard was matted, the long braids he usually wore were undone, and his hair was
tangled. The haunted look in his eyes, however, was the worst. The look was a
mixture of horror and self loathing so naked that Garion was forced to avert his
eyes.
"You saw it, didn't you, boy?" Barak demanded "You saw what happened to me out
there."
"I didn't really see anything," Garion said carefully. "I hit my head on that
tree, and all I really saw were stars."
"You must have seen it," Barak insisted. "You must have seen my Doom."
"Doom?" Garion said. "What are you talking about? You're still alive."
"A Doom doesn't always mean death," Barak said morosely, flinging himself into a
large chair. "I wish mine did. A Doom is some terrible thing that's fated to
happen to a man, and death's not the worst thing there is."
"You've just let the words of that crazy old blind woman take over your
imagination," Garion said.
"It's not only Martje," Barak said. "She's just repeating what everybody in
Cherek knows. An augurer was called in when I was born - it is the custom here.
Most of the time the auguries don't show anything at all, and nothing special is
going to happen during the child's life. But sometimes the future lies so
heavily on one of us that almost anyone can see the Doom."
"That's just superstition," Garion scoffed. "I've never seen any fortune-teller
who could even tell for sure if it's going to rain tomorrow. One of them came to
Faldor's farm once and told Durnik that he was going to die twice. Isn't that
silly?"
"The augurers and soothsayers of Cherek have more skill," Barak said, his face
still sunk in melancholy. "The Doom they saw for me was always the same - I'm
going to turn into a beast. I've had dozens of them tell me the same thing. And
now it's happened. I've been sitting here for two days now, watching. The hair
on my body's getting longer, and my teeth are starting to get pointed."
"You're imagining things," Garion said. "You look exactly the same to me as you
always have."
"You're a kind boy, Garion," Barak said. "I know you're just trying to make me
feel better, but I've got eyes of my own. I know that my teeth are getting
pointed and my body's starting to grow fur. It won't be long until Anheg has to
chain me up in his dungeon so I won't be able to hurt anyone, or I'll have to
run off into the mountains and live with the trolls."
"Nonsense," Garion insisted.
"Tell me what you saw the other day," Barak pleaded. "What did I look like when
I changed into a beast?"
"All I saw were stars from banging my head on that tree," Garion said again,
trying to make it sound true.
"I just want to know what kind of beast I'm turning into," Barak said, his voice
thick with self pity. "Am I going to be a wolf or a bear or some kind of monster
no one even has a name for?"
"Don't you remember anything at all about what happened?" Garion asked
carefully, trying to blot the strange double image of Barak and the bear out of
his memory.
"Nothing," Barak said. "I heard you shouting, and the next thing I remember was
the boar lying dead at my feet and you lying under that tree with his blood all
over you. I could feel the beast in me, though. I could even smell him."
"All you smelled was the boar," Garion said, "and all that happened was that you
lost your head in all the excitement."
"Berserk, you mean?" Barak said, looking up hopefully. Then he shook his head.
"No, Garion. I've been berserk before. It doesn't feel at all the same. This was
completely different." He sighed.
"You're not turning into a beast," Garion insisted.
"I know what I know," Barak said stubbornly.
And then Lady Merel, Barak's wife, stepped into the room through the still-open
door. "I see that my Lord is recovering his wits," she said.
"Leave me alone, Merel," Barak said. "I'm not in the mood for these games of
yours."
"Games, my Lord?" she said innocently. "I'm simply concerned about my duties. If
my Lord is unwell, I'm obliged to care for him. That's a wife's right, isn't
it?"
"Quit worrying so much about rights and duties, Merel," Barak said. "Just go
away and leave me alone."
"My Lord was quite insistent about certain rights and duties on the night of his
return to Val Alorn," she said. "Not even the locked door of my bedchamber was
enough to curb his insistence."
"All right," Barak said, Hushing slightly. "I'm sorry about that. I hoped that
things might have changed between us. I was wrong. I won't bother you again."
"Bother, my Lord?" she said. "A duty is not a bother. A good wife is obliged to
submit whenever her husband requires it of her - no matter how drunk or brutal
he may be when he comes to her bed. No one will ever be able to accuse me of
laxity in that regard."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Barak accused.
"Enjoying what, my Lord?" Her voice was light, but there was a cutting edge to
it.
"What do you want, Merel?" Barak demanded bluntly.
"I want to serve my Lord in his illness," she said. "I want to care for him and
watch the progress of his disease-each symptom as it appears."
"Do you hate me that much?" Barak asked with heavy contempt. "Be careful, Merel.
I might take it into my head to insist that you stay with me. How would you like
that? How would you like to be locked in this room with a raging beast?"
"If you grow unmanageable, my Lord, I can always have you chained to the wall,"
she suggested, meeting his enraged glare with cool unconcern.
"Barak," Garion said uncomfortably, "I have to talk to you."
"Not now, Garion," Barak snapped.
"It's important. There's a spy in the palace."
"A spy-",
"A man in a green cloak," Garion said. "I've seen him several times."
"Many men wear green cloaks," Lady Merel said.
"Stay out of this, Merel," Barak said. He turned to Garion. "What makes you
think he's a spy?"
"I saw him again this morning," Garion said, "and I followed him. He was
sneaking along a corridor that nobody seems to use. It passes above the hall
where the kings are meeting with Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol. He could hear every
word they said."
"How do you know what he could hear?" Merel asked, her eyes narrowing.
"I was up there too," Garion said. "I hid not far from him, and I could hear
them myself - almost as if I were in the same room with them."
"What does he look like?" Barak asked.
"He has sandy-colored hair," Garion said, "and a beard and, as I said, he wears
a green cloak. I saw him the day we went down to look at your ship. He was going
into a tavern with a Murgo."
"There aren't any Murgos in Val Alorn," Merel said.
"There's one," Garion said. "I've seen him before. I know who he is." He had to
move around the subject carefully. The compulsion not to speak about his
dark-robed enemy was as strong as always. Even the hint he had given made his
tongue seem stiff and his lips numb.
"Who is he?" Barak demanded.
Garion ignored the question. "And then on the day of the boar hunt I saw him in
the forest."
"The Murgo?" Barak asked.
"No. The man in the green cloak. He met some other men there. They talked for a
while not far from where I was waiting for the boar to come. They didn't see
me."
"`There's nothing suspicious about that," Barak said. "A man can meet with his
friends anywhere he likes."
"I don't think they were friends exactly," Garion said. "The one in the green
cloak called one of the other men `my Lord,' and that one was giving him orders
to get close enough so that he could hear what Mister Wolf and the kings were
saying."
"That's more serious," Barak said, seeming to forget his melancholy. "Did they
say anything else?"
"The flaxen-haired man wanted to know about us," Garion said. "You, me, Durnik,
Silk - all of us."
"Flaxen-colored hair?" Merel asked quickly.
"The one he called `my Lord,' " Garion explained. "He seemed to know about us.
He even knew about me."
"Long, pale-colored hair?" Merel demanded. "No beard? A little older than
Barak?"
"It couldn't be him," Barak said. "Anheg banished him on pain of death."
"You're a child, Barak," she said. "He'd ignore that if it suited him. I think
we'd better tell Anheg about this."
"Do you know him?" Garion asked. "Some of the things he said about Barak weren't
very polite."
"I can imagine," Merel said ironically. "Barak was one of those who said that he
ought to have his head removed."
Barak was already pulling on his mail shirt.
"Fix your hair," Merel told him in a tone that oddly had no hint of her former
rancor in it. "You look like a haystack."
"I can't stop to fool with it now," Barak said impatiently. "Come along, both of
you. We'll go to Anheg at once."
There was no time for any further questions, since Garion and Merel almost had
to run to keep up with Barak. They swept through the great hall, and startled
warriors scrambled out of their way after one look at Barak's face.
"My Lord Barak," one of the guards at the door of the council hall greeted the
huge man.
"One side," Barak commanded and flung open the door with a crash. King Anheg
looked up, startled at the sudden interruption.
"Welcome, cousin," he began.
"Treason, Anheg!" Barak roared. "The Earl of Jarvik has broken his banishment
and set spies on you in your own palace."
"Jarvik?" Anheg said. "He wouldn't dare."
"He dared, all right," Barak said. "He's been seen not far from Val Alorn, and
some of his plotting has been overheard."
"Who is this Jarvik?" the Rivan Warder asked.
"An earl I banished last year," Anheg said. "One of his men was stopped, and we
found a message on him. The message was to a Murgo in Sendaria, and it gave the
details of one of our most secret councils. Jarvik tried to deny that the
message was his, even though it had his own seal on it and his strongroom bulged
with red gold from the mines of Cthol Murgos. I'd have had his head on a pole,
but his wife's a kinswoman of mine and she begged for his life. I banished him
to one of his estates on the west coast instead." He looked at Barak. "How did
you find out about this?" he asked. "Last I heard, you'd locked yourself in your
room and wouldn't talk to anybody."
"My husband's words are true, Anheg," Lady Merel said in a voice that rang with
challenge.
"I don't doubt him, Merel," Anheg said, looking at her with a faintly surprised
expression. "I just wanted to know how he learned about Jarvik, that's all."
"This boy from Sendaria saw him," Merel said, "and heard him talk to his spy. I
heard the boy's story myself, and I stand behind what my husband said, if anyone
here dares to doubt him."
"Garion?" Aunt Pol said, startled.
"May I suggest that we hear from the lad?" Cho-Hag of the Algars said quietly.
"A nobleman with a history of friendship for the Murgos who chooses this exact
moment to break his banishment concerns us all, I think."
"Tell them what you told Merel and me, Garion," Barak ordered, pushing Garion
forward.
"Your Majesty," Garion said, bowing awkwardly, "I've seen a man in a green cloak
hiding here in your palace several times since we came here. He creeps along the
passageways and takes a lot of trouble not to be seen. I saw him the first night
we were here, and the next day I saw him going into a tavern in the city with a
Murgo. Barak says there aren't any Murgos in Cherek, but I know that the man he
was with was a Murgo."
"How do you know?" Anheg asked shrewdly.
Garion looked at him helplessly, unable to say Asharak's name.
"Well, boy?" King Rhodar asked.
Garion struggled with the words, but nothing would come out.
"Maybe you know this Murgo?" Silk suggested.
Garion nodded, relieved that someone could help him.
"You wouldn't know many Murgos," Silk said, rubbing his nose with one finger.
"Was it the one we met in Darine, perhaps - and later in Muros? The one known as
Asharak?"
Garion nodded again.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Barak asked.
"I - I couldn't," Garion stammered.
"Couldn't?"
"The words wouldn't come out," Garion said. "I don't know why, but I've never
been able to talk about him."
"Then you've seen him before?" Silk said.
"Yes," Garion said.
"And you've never told anybody?"
"No."
Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. "Is this the sort of thing you might know more
about than we would, Polgara?" he asked.
She nodded slowly. "It's possible to do it," she said. "It's never been very
reliable, so I don't bother with it myself. It is possible, however." Her
expression grew grim.
"The Grolims think it's impressive," Mister Wolf said. "Grolims are easily
impressed."
"Come with me, Garion," Aunt Pol said.
"Not yet," Wolf said.
"This is important," she said, her face hardening.
"You can do it later," he said. "Let's hear the rest of his story first. The
damage has already been done. Go ahead, Garion. What else did you see?"
Garion took a deep breath. "All right," he said, relieved to be talking to the
old man instead of the kings. "I saw the man in the green cloak again that day
we all went hunting. He met in the forest with a yellowhaired man who doesn't
wear a beard. They talked for a while, and I could hear what they were saying.
The yellow-haired man wanted to know what all of you were saying in this hall."
"You should have come to me immediately," King Anheg said.
"Anyway," Garion went on, "I had that fight with the wild boar. I hit my head
against a tree and was stunned. I didn't remember what I'd seen until this
morning. After King Fulrach called Durnik here, I went exploring. I was in a
part of the palace where the roof is all fallen in, and I found some footprints.
I followed them, and then after a while I saw the man in the green cloak again.
That was when I remembered all this. I followed him, and he went along a
corridor that passes somewhere over the top of this hall. He hid up there and
listened to what you were saying."
"How much do you think he could hear, Garion?" King Cho-Hag asked.
"You were talking about somebody called the Apostate," Garion said, "and you
were wondering if he could use some power of some kind to awaken an enemy who's
been asleep for a long time. Some of you thought you ought to warn the Arends
and the Tolnedrans, but Mister Wolf didn't think so. And Durnik talked about how
the men of Sendaria would fight if the Angaraks came."
They appeared startled.
"I was hiding not far from the man in the green cloak," Garion said. "I'm sure
he could hear everything that I could. Then some soldiers came, and the man ran
away. That's when I decided that I ought to tell Barak about all this."
"Up there," Silk said, standing near one of the walls and pointing at a corner
of the ceiling of the hall. "The mortar's crumbled away. The sound of our voices
carries right up through the cracks between the stones into the upper corridor."
"This is a valuable boy you've brought with you, Lady Polgara," I King Rhodar
said gravely. "If he's looking for a profession, I think I might find a place
for him. Gathering information is a rewarding occupation, and he seems to have
certain natural gifts along those lines."
"He has some other gifts as well," Aunt Pol said. "He seems to be very good at
turning up in places where he's not supposed to be."
"Don't be too hard on the boy, Polgara," King Anheg said. "He's done us a
service that we may never be able to repay."
Garion bowed again and retreated from Aunt Pol's steady gaze.
"Cousin," Anheg said then to Barak, "it seems that we have an unwelcome visitor
somewhere in the palace. I think I'd like to have a little talk with this lurker
in the green cloak."
"I'll take a few men," Barak said grimly. "We'll turn your palace upside down
and shake it and see what falls out."
"I'd like to have him more or less intact," Anheg cautioned.
"Of course," Barak said.
"Not too intact, however. As long as he's still able to talk, he'll serve our
purposes."
Barak grinned. "I'll make sure that he's talkative when I bring him to you,
cousin," he said.
A bleak answering grin touched Anheg's face, and Barak started toward the door.
Then Anheg turned to Barak's wife. "I'd like to thank you also, Lady Merel," he
said. "I'm sure you had a significant part in bringing this to us."
"I don't need thanks, your Majesty," she said. "It was my duty."
Anheg sighed. "Must it always be duty, Merel?" he asked sadly.
"What else is there?" she asked.
"A very great deal, actually," the king said, "but you're going to have to find
that out for yourself."
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "come here."
"Yes, ma'am," Garion said and went to her a little nervously.
"Don't be silly, dear," she said. "I'm not going to hurt you." She put her
fingertips lightly to his forehead.
"Well?" Mister Wolf asked.
"It's there," she said. "It's very light, or I'd have noticed it before. I'm
sorry, Father."
"Let's see," Wolf said. He came over and also touched Garion's heart with his
hand. "It's not serious," he said.
"It could have been," Aunt Pol said. "And it was my responsibility to see that
something like this didn't happen."
"Don't flog yourself about it, Pol," Wolf said. "That's very unbecoming. Just
get rid of it."
"What's the matter?" Garion asked, alarmed.
"It's nothing to worry about, dear," Aunt Pol said. She took his right hand and
touched it for a moment to the white lock at her brow. Garion felt a surge, a
welter of confused impressions, and then a tingling wrench behind his ears. A
sudden dizziness swept over him, and he would have fallen if Aunt Pol had not
caught him.
"Who is the Murgo?" she asked, looking into his eyes.
"His name is Asharak," Garion said promptly.
"How long have you known him?"
"All my life. He used to come to Faldor's farm and watch me when I was little."
"That's enough for now, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "Let him rest a little first.
I'll fix something to keep it from happening again."
"Is the boy ill?" King Cho-Hag asked.
"It's not exactly an illness, Cho-Hag," Mister Wolf said. "It's a little hard to
explain. It's cleared up now, though."
"I want you to go to your room, Garion," Aunt Pol said, still holding him by the
shoulders. "Are you steady enough on your feet to get there by yourself?"
"I'm all right," he said, still feeling a little light-headed.
"No side trips and no more exploring," she said firmly.
"No, ma'am."
"When you get there, lie down. I want you to think back and remember every
single time you've seen this Murgo - what he did, what he said."
"He never spoke to me," Garion said. "He just watched."
"I'll be along in a little while," she went on, "and I'll want you to tell me
everything you know about him. It's important, Garion, so concentrate as hard as
you can."
"All right, Aunt Pol," he said.
Then she kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Run along now, dear," she said.
Feeling strangely light-headed, Garion went to the door and out into the
corridor.
He passed through the great hall where Anheg's warriors were belting on swords
and picking up vicious-looking battle-axes in preparation for the search of the
palace. Still bemused, he went through without stopping.
Part of his mind seemed half asleep, but that secret, inner part was wide awake.
The dry voice observed that something significant had just happened. The
powerful compulsion not to speak about Asharak was obviously gone. Aunt Pol had
somehow pulled it out of his mind entirely. His feeling about that was oddly
ambiguous. That strange relationship between himself and dark-robed, silent
Asharak had always been intensely private, and now it was gone. He felt vaguely
empty and somehow violated. He sighed and went up the broad stairway toward his
room.
There were a half dozen warriors in the hallway outside his room, probably part
of Barak's search for the man in the green cloak. Garion stopped. Something was
wrong, and he shook off his half daze. This pan of the palace was much too
populated to make it very likely that the spy would be hiding here. His heart
began racing, and step by step he began to back away toward the top of the
stairs he had just climbed. The warriors looked like any other Chereks in the
palace-bearded, dressed in helmets, mail shirts, and furs, but something didn't
seem exactly right.
A bulky man in a dark, hooded cloak stepped through the doorway of Garion's room
into the corridor. It was Asharak. The Murgo was about to say something, but
then his eyes fell on Garion. "Ah," he said softly. His dark eyes gleamed in his
scarred face. "I've been looking for you, Garion," he said in that same soft
voice. "Come here, boy."
Garion felt a tentative tug at his mind that seemed to slip away as if it
somehow could not get a sure grip. He shook his head mutely and continued to
back away.
"Come along now," Asharak said. "We've known each other far too long for this.
Do as I say. You know that you must."
The tug became a powerful grasp that again slipped away. "Come here, Garion!"
Asharak commanded harshly. Garion kept backing away, step by step.
"No," he said. Asharak's eyes blazed, and he drew himself up angrily.
This time it was not a tug or a grasp, but a blow. Garion could feel the force
of it even as it seemed somehow to miss or be deflected. Asharak's eyes widened
slightly, then narrowed. "Who did this?" he demanded. "Polgara? Belgarath? It
won't do any good, Garion. I had you once, and I can take you again any time I
want to. You're not strong enough to refuse me."
Garion looked at his enemy and answered out of some need for defiance. "Maybe
I'm not," he said, "but I think you'll have to catch me first."
Asharak turned quickly to his warriors. "That's the boy I want," he barked
sharply. "Take him!"
Smoothly, almost as if it were done without thought, one of the warriors raised
his bow and leveled an arrow directly at Garion. Asharak swung his arm quickly
and knocked the bow aside just as the steelpointed shaft was loosed. The arrow
sang in the air and clattered against the stones of the wall a few feet to
Garion's left.
"Alive, idiot," Asharak snarled and struck the bowman a crushing blow to the
side of the head. The bowman fell twitching to the stone floor.
Garion spun, dashed back to the stairs and plunged down three steps at a time.
He didn't bother to look back. The sound of heavy feet told him that Asharak and
his men were after him. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned sharply to the
left and fled down a long, dark passageway that led back into the maze of
Anheg's palace.
Chapter Eighteen
THERE WERE WARRIORS everywhere, and the sounds of fighting. In the first instant
of his flight, Garion's plan had been simple. All he had to do was to find some
of Barak's warriors, and he would be safe. But there were other warriors in the
palace as well. The Earl of Jarvik had led a small army into the palace by way
of the ruined wings to the south, and fighting raged in the corridors.
Garion quickly realized that there was no way he could distinguish friend from
enemy. To him, one Cherek warrior looked the same as another. Unless he could
find Barak or someone else he recognized, he did not dare reveal himself to any
of them. The frustrating knowledge that he was running from friends as well as
enemies added to his fright. It was altogether possible - even quite likely that he would run from Barak's men directly into the arms of Jarvik's.
The most logical thing to do would be to go directly back to the council hall,
but in his haste to escape from Asharak, he had run down so many dim passageways
and turned so many corners that he had no idea where he was or how to get back
to the familiar parts of the palace. His headlong flight was dangerous. Asharak
or his men could wait around any corner to seize him, and he knew that the Murgo
could quickly re-establish that strange bond between them that Aunt Pol had
shattered with her touch. It was that which had to be avoided at any cost. Once
Asharak had him again, he would never let go. The only alternative to him was to
find some place to hide.
He dodged into another narrow passageway and stopped, panting and with his back
pressed tightly against the stones of the wall. Dimly, at the far end of this
hallway, he could see a narrow flight of worn stone steps twisting upward in the
flickering light of a single torch. He quickly reasoned that the higher he went,
the less likely he would be to encounter anyone. The fighting would most likely
be concentrated on the lower floors. He took a deep breath and went swiftly to
the foot of the stairs.
Halfway up he saw the flaw in his plan. There were no side passages on the
stairs, no way to escape and no place to hide. He had to get to the top quickly
or chance discovery and capture, or even worse.
"Boy!" a shout came from below.
Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. A grim-faced Cherek in mail and helmet
was coming up the stairs behind him, his sword drawn. Garion started to run,
stumbling up the stairs.
There was another shout from above, and Garion froze. The warrior at the top was
as grim as the one below and wielded a cruel-looking axe. He was trapped between
them. Garion shrank back against the stones, fumbling for his dagger, though he
knew it would be of little use. Then the two warriors saw each other. With
ringing shouts they both charged. The one with the sword rushed up past Garion
while the one with the axe lunged down.
The axe swung wide, missed and clashed a shower of sparks from the stones of the
wall. The sword was more true. With his hair standing on end in horror, Garion
saw it slide through the downward-plunging body of the axeman. The axe fell
clattering down the stairs, and the axeman, still falling on top of his
opponent, pulled a broad dagger from its sheath at his hip and drove it into the
chest of his enemy. The impact as the two men came together tore them from their
feet, and they tumbled, still grappled together down the stairs, their daggers
flashing as each man struck again and again.
In helpless horror Garion watched as they rolled and crashed past him, their
daggers sinking into each other with sickening sounds and blood spurting from
their wounds like red fountains.
Garion retched once, clenched his teeth tightly, and ran up the stairs, trying
to close his ears to the awful sounds coming from below as the two dying men
continued their horrid work on each other.
He no longer even considered stealth; he simply ran-fleeing more from that
hideous encounter on the stairs than from Asharak or the Earl of Jarvik. At
last, after how long he could not have said, gasping and winded, he plunged
through the partially open door of a dusty, unused chamber. He pushed the door
shut and stood trembling with his back against it.
There was a broad, sagging bed against one wall of the room and a small window
set high in the same wall. Two broken chairs leaned wearily in corners and an
empty chest, its lid open, in a third, and that was all. The chamber was at
least a place out of the corridors where savage men were killing each other, but
Garion quickly realized that the seeming safety here was an illusion. If anyone
opened this door, he would be trapped. Desperately he began to look around the
dusty room.
Hanging on the bare wall across from the bed were some drapes; and thinking that
they might conceal some closet or adjoining chamber, Garion crossed the room and
pulled them aside. There was an opening behind the drapes, though it did not
lead into another room but instead into a dark, narrow hall. He peered into the
passageway, but the darkness was so total that he could only see a short
distance into it. He shuddered at the thought of groping through that blackness
with armed men pounding along at his heels.
He glanced up at the single window and then dragged the heavy chest across the
room to stand on so that he could see out. Perhaps he might be able to see
something from the window that would give him some idea of his location. He
climbed up on the chest, stood on his tiptoes and looked out.
Towers loomed here and there amid the long slate roofs of the endless galleries
and halls of King Anheg's palace. It was hopeless. He saw nothing that he could
recognize. He turned back toward the chamber and was about to jump down from the
chest when he stopped suddenly. There, clearly in the dust which lay heavily on
the floor, were his foot punts. He hopped quickly down and grabbed up the
bolster from the long unused bed. He spread it out on the floor and dragged it
around the room, erasing the footprints. He knew that he could not completely
conceal the fact that someone had been in the room, but he could obliterate the
footprints which, because of their size, would immediately make it obvious to
Asharak or any of his men that whoever had been i hiding here was not yet
full-grown. When he finished, he tossed the bolster back on the bed. The job
wasn't perfect, but at least it was better than it had been.
Then there was a shout in the corridor outside and the ring of steel on steel.
Garion took a deep breath and plunged into the dark passageway behind the
drapes.
He had gone no more than a few feet when the darkness in the narrow passage
become absolute. His skin crawled at the touch of cobwebs on his face, and the
dust of years rose chokingly from the uneven floor. At first he moved quite
rapidly, wanting more than anything to put as much distance between himself and
the fighting in the corridor as possible, but then he stumbled, and for one
heart-stopping instant it seemed that he would fall. The picture of a steep
stairway dropping down into the blackness flashed through his mind, and he
realized that at his present pace there would be no possible way to catch
himself. He began to move more cautiously, one hand on the stones of the wall
and the other in front of his face to ward off the cobwebs which hung thickly
from the low ceiling.
There was no sense of time in the dark, and it seemed to Garion that he had been
groping for hours in this dark hallway that appeared to go on forever. Then,
despite his care, he ran full into a rough stone wall. He felt a moment of
panic. Did the passageway end here? Was it a trap?
Then, flickering at one corner of his vision, he saw dim light. The passageway
did not end, but rather made a sharp turn to the right. There seemed to be a
light at the far end, and Garion gratefully followed it.
As the light grew stronger, he moved more rapidly, and soon he reached the spot
that was the source of the light. It was a narrow slot low in the wall. Garion
knelt on the dusty stones and peered out.
The hall below was enormous, and a great fire burned in a pit in the center with
the smoke rising to the openings in the vaulted roof which lofted even above the
place where Garion was. Though it looked much different from up here, he
immediately recognized King Anheg's throne room. As he looked down, he saw the
gross shape of King Rhodar and the smaller form of King Cho-Hag with the
ever-present Hettar standing behind him. Some distance from the thrones, King
Fulrach stood in conversation with Mister Wolf, and nearby was Aunt Pol. Barak's
wife was talking with Queen Islena, and Queen Porenn and Queen Silar stood not
far from them. Silk paced the floor nervously, glancing now and then at the
heavily guarded doors. Garion felt a surge of relief. He was safe.
He was about to call down to them when the great door banged open, and King
Anheg, mail-shined and with his sword in his hand, strode into the hall, closely
followed by Barak and the Rivan Warder, holding between them the struggling form
of the flaxen-haired man Garion had seen in the forest on the day of the boar
hunt.
"This treason will cost you dearly, Jarvik," Anheg said grimly over his shoulder
as he strode toward his throne.
"Is it over, then?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Soon, Polgara," Anheg said. "My men are chasing the last of Jarvik's brigands
in the furthest reaches of the palace. If we hadn't been warned, it might have
gone quite differently, though."
Garion, his shout still hovering just behind his lips, decided at the last
instant to stay silent for a few more moments.
King Anheg sheathed his sword and took his place on his throne.
"We'll talk for a bit, Jarvik," he said, "before what must be done is done."
The flaxen-haired man gave up his hopeless struggle against Barak and the almost
equally powerful Brand. "I don't have anything to say, Anheg," he said
defiantly. "If the luck had gone differently, I'd be sitting on your throne
right now. I took my chance, and that's the end of it.
"Not quite," Anheg said. "I want the details. You might as well tell me. One way
or another, you're going to talk."
"Do your worst," Jarvik sneered. "I'll bite out my own tongue before I tell you
anything."
"We'll see about that," Anheg said grimly.
"That won't be necessary, Anheg," Aunt Pol said, walking slowly toward the
captive. "There's an easier way to persuade him."
"I'm not going to say anything," Jarvik told her. "I'm a warrior and I'm not
afraid of you, witch-woman."
"You're a greater fool than I thought, Lord Jarvik," Mister Wolf said. "Would
you rather I did it, Pol?"
"I can manage, Father," she said, not taking her eyes off Jarvik.
"Carefully," the old man cautioned. "Sometimes you go to extremes. Just a little
touch is enough."
"I know what I'm doing, Old Wolf," she said tartly. She stared full into the
captive's eyes.
Garion, still hidden, held his breath.
The Earl of Jarvik began to sweat and tried desperately to pull his eyes away
from Aunt Pol's gaze, but it was hopeless. Her will commanded him, locking his
eyes. He trembled, and his face grew pale. She made no move, no gesture, but
merely stood before him, her eyes burning into his brain.
And then, after a moment, he screamed. Then he screamed again and collapsed, his
weight sagging down in the hands of the two men who held him.
"Take it away," he whimpered, shuddering uncontrollably. "I'll talk, but please
take it away."
Silk, now lounging near Anheg's throne, looked at Hettar. "I wonder what he
saw," he said.
"I think it might be better not to know," Hettar replied.
Queen Islena had watched intently as if hoping to gain some hint of how the
trick was done. She winced visibly when Jarvik screamed, pulling her eyes away.
"All right, Jarvik," Anheg said, his tone strangely subdued. "Begin at the
beginning. I want it all."
"It was a little thing at first," Jarvik said in a shaking voice. "There didn't
seem to be any harm in it."
"There never does," Brand said.
The Earl of Jarvik drew in a deep breath, glanced once at Aunt Pol and shuddered
again. Then he straightened. "It started about two years ago," he said. "I'd
sailed to Kotu in Drasnia, and I met a Nadrak merchant named Grashor there. He
seemed to be a good enough fellow and after we'd gotten to know each other he
asked me if I'd be interested in a profitable venture. I told him that I was an
earl and not a common tradesman, but he persisted. He said he was nervous about
the pirates who live on the islands in the Gulf of Cherek and an earl's ship
manned by armed warnors was not likely to be attacked. His cargo was a single
chest - not very large. I think it was some jewels he'd managed to smuggle past
the customs houses in Boktor, and he wanted them delivered to Darine in
Sendaria. I said that I wasn't really interested, but then he opened his purse
and poured out gold. The gold was bright red, I remember, and I couldn't seem to
take my eyes off it. I did need money - who doesn't after all?-and I really
couldn't see any dishonor in doing what he asked.
"Anyway, I carried him and his cargo to Darine and met his associate - a Murgo
named Asharak."
Garion started at the name, and he heard Silk's low whistle of surprise.
"As we'd agreed," Jarvik continued, "Asharak paid me a sum equal to what Grashor
had given me, and I came away from the affair with a whole pouch of gold.
Asharak told me that I'd done them a great favor and that if I ever needed more
gold, he'd be happy to find ways for me to earn it.
"I now had more gold than I'd ever had at one time before, but it somehow seemed
that it wasn't enough. For some reason I felt that I needed more."
"It's the nature of Angarak gold," Mister Wolf said. "It calls to its own. The
more one has, the more it comes to possess him. That's why Murgos are so lavish
with it. Asharak wasn't buying your services, Jarvik; he was buying your soul."
Jarvik nodded, his face gloomy. "At any rate," he continued, "it wasn't long
before I found an excuse to sail to Darine again. Asharak told me that since
Murgos are forbidden to enter Cherek, he'd developed a great curiosity about us
and our kingdom. He asked me many questions and he gave me gold for every
answer. It seemed to me to be a foolish way to spend money, but I gave him the
answers and took his gold. When I came back to Cherek, I had another pouch full.
I went to Jarviksholm and put the new gold with that I already had. I saw that I
was a rich man, and I still hadn't done anything dishonorable. But now it seemed
that there weren't enough hours in the day. I spent all my time locked in my
strongroom, counting my gold over and over, polishing it until it gleamed red as
blood and filling my ears with the sound of its tinkling.
But after a while it seemed that I didn't really have very much, and so I went
back to Asharak. He said he was still curious about Cherek and that he'd like to
know Anheg's mind. He told me that he'd give me as much gold as I already had if
I sent him word of what was said in the high councils here in the palace for a
year. At first I said no, because I knew it would be dishonorable; but then he
showed me the gold, and I couldn't say no any more."
From where he watched Garion could see the expressions of those in the hall
below. Their faces had a curious mingling of pity and contempt as Jarvik's story
continued.
"It was then, Anheg," he said, "that your men captured one of my messengers, and
I was banished to Jarviksholm. At first I didn't mind, '' because I could still
play with my gold. But again it wasn't long before it seemed that I didn't have
enough. I sent a fast ship through the Bore to Darine with a message to Asharak
begging him to find something else for me to do to earn more gold. When the ship
came back, Asharak was aboard her, and we sat down and talked about what I could
do to increase my hoard."
"You're doubly a traitor then, Jarvik," Anheg said in a voice that was almost
sad. "You've betrayed me and you've broken the oldest law in Cherek. No Angarak
has set foot on Cherek soil since the days of Bear-shoulders himself."
Jarvik shrugged. "I didn't really care by then," he said. "Asharak had a plan,
and it seemed like a good one to me. If we could get through the city a few at a
time, we could hide an army in the ruined southern wings of the palace. With
surprise and a bit of luck we could kill Anheg and the other Alorn Kings, and I
could take the throne of Cherek and maybe of all Aloria as well."
"And what was Asharak's price?" Mister Wolf demanded, his eyes narrowing. "What
did he want in return for making you king?"
"A thing so small that I laughed when he told me what he wanted," Jarvik said.
"But he said that he'd not only give me the crown but a roomful of gold if I'd
get it for him."
"What was it?" Wolf repeated.
"He said that there was a boy - about fourteen - in the party of King Fulrach of
Sendaria. He told me that as soon as that boy was delivered to him, he'd give me
more gold than I could count and the throne of Cherek as well."
King Fulrach looked startled.
"The boy Garion?" he asked. "Why would Asharak want him?"
Aunt Pol's single frightened gasp carried even up to where Garion was concealed.
"Durnik!" she said in a ringing voice, but Durnik was already on his feet and
racing toward the door with Silk close behind him. Aunt Pol spun with eyes
blazing and the white lock at her brow almost incandescent in the midnight of
her hair. The Earl of Jarvik flinched as her glare fell on him.
"If anything's happened to the boy, Jarvik, men will tremble at the memory of
your fate for a thousand years," she told him.
It had gone far enough. Garion was ashamed and a little frightened by the fury
of Aunt Pol's reaction.
"I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he called down to her through the narrow slot in the
wall. "I'm up here."
"Garion?" She looked up, trying to see him. "Where are you?"
"Up here near the ceiling," he said, "behind the wall."
"How did you get up there?"
"I don't know. Some men were chasing me, and I ran. This is where I ended up."
"Come down here at once."
"I don't know how, Aunt Pol," he said. "I ran so far and took so many turns that
I don't know how to get back. I'm lost."
"All right," she said, regaining her composure. "Stay where you are. We'll think
of a way to get you down."
"I hope so," he said.
Chapter Nineteen
"Well it has to come out someplace," King Anheg said, squinting up toward the
spot where Garion waited nervously. "All he has to do is follow it."
"And walk directly into the arms of Asharak the Murgo?" Aunt Pol asked. "He's
better off staying where he is."
"Asharak is fleeing for his life," Anheg said. "He's no-where in the palace."
"As I recall, he's not even supposed to be in the kingdom," she said pointedly.
"All right Pol," Mister Wolf said. He called up, "Garion, which way does the
passage run?"
"It seems to go on toward the back of the hall where the thrones are," Garion
answered. "I can't tell for sure if it turns off or not. It's pretty dark up
here."
"We'll pass you up a couple of torches," Wolf said. "Set one at the spot where
you are now and then go on down the passage with the other. As long as you can
see the first one, you'll be going in a straight line."
"Very clever," Silk said. "I wish I were seven thousand years old so I could
solve problems so easily."
Wolf let that pass.
"I still think the safest way would be to get some ladders and break a hole in
the wall," Barak said.
King Anheg looked pained. "Couldn't we try Belgarath's suggestion first?" he
asked.
Barak shrugged. "You're the king."
"Thanks," Anheg said dryly.
A warrior fetched a long pole and two torches were passed up to Garion.
"If the line of the passageway holds straight," Anheg said, "he should come out
somewhere in the royal apartments."
"Interesting," King Rhodar said with one raised eyebrow. "It would be most
enlightening to know if the passage led to the royal chambers or from them."
"It's entirely possible that the passageway is just some long-forgotten escape
route," Anheg said in an injured tone. "Our history, after all, has not been all
that peaceful. There's no need to expect the worst, is there?"
"Of course not," King Rhodar said blandly, "no need at all."
Garion set one of the torches beside the slot in the wall and followed the dusty
passageway, looking back often to be sure that the torch was still in plain
sight. Eventually he came to a narrow door which opened into the back of an
empty closet. The closet was attached to a splendid-looking bedchamber, and
outside there was a broad, well-lighted corridor.
Several warriors were coming down the corridor, and Garion recognized Torvik the
huntsman among them. "Here I am", he said, stepping out with a surge of relief.
"You've been busy, haven't you?" Torvik said with a grin.
"It wasn't my idea," Garion said.
"Let's get you back to King Anheg," Torvik said. "The lady, your Aunt, seemed
concerned about you."
"She's angry with me, I suppose," Garion said, falling into step beside the
broad-shouldered man.
"More than likely," Torvik said. "Women are almost alwasy angry with us for one
reason or another. It's one of the things you'll have to get used to as you get
older."
Aunt Pol was waiting at the door to the throne room. There were no reproaches not yet, at any rate. For one brief moment she clasped him fiercely to her and
then looked at him gravely. "We've been waiting for you dear," she said almost
calmly; then she led him to where the others waited.
"In my grandmother's quarters, you say?" Anheg was saying to Torvik. "What an
astonishing thing. I remember her as a crotchety old lady who walked with a
cane."
"No one is born old, Anheg," King Rhodar said with a sly look.
"I'm sure there are many explanations, Anheg," Queen Porenn said. "My husband is
just teasing you."
"One of the men looked into the passage, your Majesty," Torvik said tactfully.
"The dust is very thick. It's possible that it hasn't been used in centuries."
"What an astonishing thing," Anheg said again.
The matter was then delicately allowed to drop, though King Rhodar's sly
expression spoke volumes.
The Earl of Seline coughed politely. "I think young Garion here may have a story
for us," he said.
"I expect he has," Aunt Pol said, turning toward Garion. "I seem to remember
telling you to stay in your room."
"Asharak was in my room," Garion said, "and he had warriors with him. He tried
to make me with him. When I wouldn't, he said he'd had me once and could get me
again. I didn't understand wxactly what he meant, but I told him that he'd have
to catch me first. Then I ran."
Brand, the Rivan Warder, chuckled. "I don't see how you can find much fault with
that, Polgara," he said. "I think if I found a Grolim priest in my room, I'd
probably run away too."
"You're sure it was Asharak?" Silk asked.
Garion nodded. "I've known him for a long time," he said. "All my life, I guess.
And he knew me. He called me by name."
"I think I'd like to have a long talk with this Asharak," Anheg said. "I want to
ask him some questions about all the mischief he's been stirring up in my
kingdom."
"I doubt if you'll find him, Anheg," Mister Wolf said. "He seems to be more than
just a Grolim Priest. I touched his mind once - in Muros. It's not an ordinary
mind."
"I'll amuse myself with the search for him," Anheg said with a bleak expression.
"Not even a Grolim can walk on water so I believe I'll just seal off all the
ports in Cherek and then put my warriors to searching the mountains and forests
for him. They get fat and troublesome in the wintertime anyway, and it'll give
them something to do."
"Driving fat, troublesome warriors into the snow in the dead of winter isn't
going to make you a popular king, Anheg," Rhodar observed.
"Offer a reward," Silk suggested. "That way you get the job done and stay
popular as well."
"That's an idea," Anheg said. "What kind of reward would you suggest, Prince
Kheldar?"
"Promise to equal the weight of Asharak's head in gold," Silk said. "That should
lure the fattest warrior away from the dice cup and the ale keg."
Anheg winced.
"He's a Grolim," Silk said. "They probably won't find him, but they'll take the
kingdom apart looking. Your gold is safe, your warriors get a bit of exercise,
you get a reputation for generosity, and, with every man in Cherek looking for
him with an axe, Asharak's going to be much to busy hiding to stir up any more
mischief. A man whose head is more valuable to others than it is to himself has
little time for foolishness."
"Prince Kheldar," Anheg said gravely, "you are a devious man."
"I try, King Anheg," Silk said with an ironic bow.
"I don't suppose you'd care to come to work for me?" the King of Cherek offered.
"Anheg!" Rhodar protested.
Silk sighed. "Blood, King Anheg," he said. "I'm committed to my uncle by our
bonds of kinship. I'd be interested to hear your offer, though. It might help in
future negotiations about compensation for my services."
Queen Porenn's laughter was like a small silver bell, and King Rhodar's face
became tragic. "You see," he said. "I'm absolutely surrounded by traitors.
What's a poor fat old man to do?"
A grim-looking warrior entered the hall and marched up to Anheg. "It's done,
King," he said. "Do you want to look at his head?"
"No," Anheg said shortly.
"Should we put it on a pole near the harbor?" The warrior asked.
"No," Anheg said. "Jarvik was a brave man once and my kinsman by marriage. Have
him delivered to his wife for proper burial."
The warrior bowed and left the hall.
"This problem of the Grolim, Asharak, interests me," Queen Islena said to Aunt
Pol. "Might we not between us, Lady Polgara, devise a way to locate him?" Her
expression had a certain quality of self-importance to it.
Mister Wolf spoke quickly before Aunt Pol could answer. "Bravely spoken,
Islena," he said. "But we couldn't allow the Queen of Cherek to take such a
risk. I'm sure your skills are formidable, but such a search opens the mind
completely. If Asharak felt you looking for him he'd retaliate instantly.
Polgara wouldn't be in any danger, but I'm afraid your mind could be blown out
like a candle. It would be a great shame to have the Queen of Cherek live out
the rest of her life as a raving lunatic."
Islena turned suddenly very pale and did not see the sly wink Mister Wolf
directed at Anheg.
"I couldn't permit it.," Anheg said firmly. "My Queen is far too precious for me
to allow her to take such a terrible risk."
"I must accede to the will of my Lord," Islena said in a relieved tone. "By his
command I withdraw my suggestion."
"The courage of my Queen honors me," Anheg said with an absolutely straight
face.
Islena bowed and backed away rather quickly. Aunt Pol looked at Mister Wolf with
one raised eyebrow, but let it pass.
Wolf's expression became more serious as he rose from the chair in which he had
been sitting. "I think the time has come to make some decisions," he said.
"Things are beginning to move too fast for any more delay." He looked at Anheg.
"Is there some place where we can speak without risk of being overheard?"
"There's a chamber in one of the towers," Anheg said. "I thought about it before
our first meeting but-" He paused and looked at Cho-Hag.
"You shouldn't let it concern you," Cho-Hag said. "I can manage stairs if I have
to, and it would have been better for me to have been a little inconvenienced
than to have Jarvik's spy overhear us."
"I'll stay with Garion," Durnik said to Aunt Pol.
Aunt Pol shook her head firmly. "No," she said. "As long as Asharak is on the
loose in Cherek, I don't want him out of my sight."
"Shall we go then?" Mister Wolf said. "It's getting late, and I want to leave
first thing in the morning. The trail I was following is getting colder."
Queen Islena, still looking shaken stood to one side with Porenn and Silar and
made no effort to follow as King Anheg led the way from the throne room.
I'll let you know what happens, King Rhodar signalled to his queen.
Of course, Porenn gestured back. Her face was placid, but the snap of her
fingers betrayed her irritability.
Calmly, child, Rhodar's fingers told her. We're guests here and have to obey
local customs.
Whatever my Lord commands, she replied with a tilt of her hands that spoke whole
volumes of sarcasm.
With Hettar's help, King Cho-Hag managed the stairs although his progress was
painfully slow. "I apologize for this," he puffed, stopping halfway to catch his
breath. "It's as tiresome for me as it is for you."
King Anheg posted guards at the foot of the stairs, then came up and closed the
heavy door behind him. "Light the fire, cousin," he said to Barak. "We might as
well be comfortable."
Barak nodded and put a torch to the wood in the fireplace.
The chamber was round and not too spacious, but there was adequate room for them
all and chairs and benches to sit on.
Mister Wolf stood at one of the windows, looking down at the twinkling lights of
Val Alorn below. "I've always been fond of towers," he said, almost to himself.
"My Master lived in one like this, and I enjoyed the time I spent there."
"I'd give my life to have known Aldur," Cho-Hag said softly. "Was he really
surrounded by light as some say?"
"He seemed quite ordinary to me," Mister Wolf said. "I lived with him for five
years before I even knew who he was."
"Was he really as wise as we're told?" Anheg asked.
"Probably wiser," Wolf said. "I was a wild and errant boy when he found me dying
in a snowstorm outside his tower. He managed to tame me - though it took him
several hundred years to do it." He turned from the window with a deep sigh. "To
work then," he said.
"Where will you go to take up the search?" King Fulrach asked.
"Camaar," Wolf said. "I found the trail there, I think it led down into
Arendia."
"We'll send warriors with you," Anheg said. "After what happened here, it looks
like the Grolims may try to stop you."
"No, Wolf said firmly. "Warriors are useless in dealing with the Grolims. I
can't move with an army underfoot, and I won't have time to explain to the King
of Arendia why I'm invading his kingdom with a horde of troops at my back. It
takes even longer to explain things to Arends than it does to Alorns impossible as that sounds."
"Don't be uncivil, Father," Aunt Pol said. "It's their world too, and they're
concerned."
"you wouldn't necessarily need an army, Belgarath," King Rhodar said, "but
wouldn't it be prudent to take along a few good men?"
There's very little that Polgara and I can't deal with by ourselves," Wolf said,
"and Silk, Barak and Durnik are along to deal with the more mundane problems.
The smaller our group, the less attention we'll attract." He turned to Cho-Hag.
"As long as we're on the subject, though, I'd like to have your son with us.
We're likely to need his rather specialized talents."
"Impossible," Hettar said flatly. "I have to remain with my father."
"No, Hettar," Cho-Hag said. "I don't intend for you to live out your life as a
cripple's legs."
"I've never felt any restriction in serving you, Father," Hettar said. "There
are plenty of others with the same talents I have. Let the Ancient One choose
another."
"How many other Sha-Darim are there among the Algars?" Mister Wolf asked
gravely?
Hettar looked at him sharply as if trying to tell him something with his eyes.
King Cho-Hag drew his breath sharply. "Hettar," he asked, "is this true?"
Hettar shrugged. "It may be, Father," he said. "I didn't think it was
important."
Cho-Hag looked at Mister Wolf.
Wolf nodded. "It's true," he said. "I knew it the first time I saw him. He's a
Sha-Dar. He had to find out for himself, though."
Cho-Hag's eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "My son!" he said proudly, pulling
Hettar into a rough embrace.
"It's no great thing, Father," Hettar said quietly, as if suddenly embarrassed.
"What are they talking about? Garion whispered to Silk.
"It's something the Algars take very seriously," Silk said softly. "They think
that there are some people who can talk to horses with their thoughts alone.
They call these people the Sha-Darim - Clan-Chiefs of the horses. It's very rare
- maybe only two or three in a whole generation. It's instant nobility for any
Algar who has it. Cho-Hag's going to explode with pride when he gets back to
Algaria."
"Is it that important?" Garion asked.
Silk shrugged. "The Algars seem to think so," he said. "All the clans gather at
the Stronghold when they find a new Sha-Dar. The whole nation celebrates for six
weeks. There are all kinds of gifts. Hettar'll be a rich man if he chooses to
accept them. He may not. He's a strange man."
"You must go," Cho-Hag said to Hettar. "The pride of Algaria goes with you, your
duty is clear."
"As my father decides," Hettar said reluctantly.
"Good," Mister Wolf said. "How long will it take you to go to Algaria, pick up a
dozen or so of your best horses and take them to Camaar?"
Hettar thought for a moment. "Two weeks," he said, "if there aren't any
blizzards in the mountains of Sendaria."
"We'll all leave here in the morning then," Wolf said. "Anheg can give you a
ship. Take the horses along the Great North Road to the place a few leagues east
of Camaar where another road strikes off to the south. It fords the Great Camaar
River and runs down to join the Great West Road at the ruins of Vo Wacune in
northern Arendia. We'll meet you there in two weeks."
Hettar nodded.
"We'll also be joined at Vo Wacune by an Asturian Arend," Wolf went on, "and
somewhat later by a Mimbrate. They might be useful to us in the south."
"And will also fulfill the prophecies," Anheg said cryptically.
Wolf shrugged, his bright blue eyes twinkling suddenly. "I don't object to
fulfilling prophecies," he said, "as long as it doesn't inconvenience me too
much."
"Is there anything we can do to help in the search?" Brand asked.
You'llhave enough to do," Wold said. "No matter how our search turns out, it's
obvious that the Angaraks are getting ready for some kind of major action. If
we're successful, they might hesitate, but Angaraks don't think the way we do.
Even after what happened at Vo Mimbre, they may decide to risk an all-out attack
on the west. It could be that they are responding to prophecies of their own
that we don't know anything about. In any event, I think you should be ready for
something fairly major from them. You'll need to make preparations."
Anheg grinned wolfishly. "We've been preparing for them for five thousand
years," he said. "This time we'll purge the whole world of this Angarak
infection. When Torak One-eye awakes, he'll find himself as alone as Mara - and
just as powerless."
"Maybe," Mister Wolf said, "but don't plan the victory celebration until the
war's over. Make your preparations quietly, and don't sir up the people in your
kingdoms any more than you have to. The west is crawling with Grolims, and
they're watching everything we do. The trail I'll be following could lead me
into Cthol Murgos, and I'd rather not have to deal with an army of Murgos massed
on the border."
"I can play the watching game too," King Rhodar said with a grim look on his
plump face. "Probably even better than the Grolims. It's time to send a few more
caravans to the east. The Angaraks won't move without help from the east, and
the Malloreans will have to cross over into Gar og Nadrak before they deploy
south. A bribe or two here and there, a few barrels of strong ale in the right
mining camps - who knows what a bit of diligent corruption might turn up? A
chance word or two could give us several months' warning."
If they're planning anything major, the Thulls will be building supply dumps
along the eastern escarpment," Cho-Hag said. "Thulls aren't bright, and it's
easy to observe them without being seen. I'll increase my patrols along those
mountains. With a little luck, we might be able to anticipate their invasion
route. Is there anything else we can do to help you, Belgarath?"
Mister Wolf thought for a moment. Suddenly he grinned. "I'm certain our theif is
listening very hard, waiting for one of us to speak his name or the name of the
thing he stole. Sooner or later someone's bound to make a slip; and once he
locates us, he'll be able to hear every word we say. Instead of trying to gag
ourselves, I think it might be better if we gave him something to listen to. If
you can arrange it, I'd like every minstel ans storyteller in the north start
retelling certain old stories - you know the ones. When those names start
sounding in every village marketplace north of the Camaar River, it'll set up a
roaring in his ears like a thunderstorm. If nothing else it will give us the
freedom to speak. In time he'll get tired of it and stop listening."
"It's getting late, Father," Aunt Pol reminded him.
Wolf nodded. "We're playing a deadly game," he told them all, "but our enemies
are playing one just as deadly. Their danger's as great as ours, and right now,
no one can predict what will finally happen. Make your preparations and send out
men you can trust to keep watch. Be patient and don't do anything rash. That
could be more dangerous than anything else right now. At the moment, Polgara and
I are the only ones who can act. You're going to have to trust us. I know that
sometimes some of the things we've done have seemed a bit strange, but there are
reasons for what we do. Please don't interfere again. I'll get word to you now
and then about our progress; if I need you to do anything else, I'll let you
know. All right?"
The kings nodded gravely, and everyone rose to his feet.
Anheg stepped over to Mister Wolf. "Could you come by my study in an hour or so,
Belgarath?" he said quietly. "I'd like to have a few words with you and Polgara
before your departure."
"If you wish, Anheg," Mister Wolf said.
"Come along, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "We have packing to take care of."
Garion, a little awed at the solemnity of the discussions, rose quietly and
followed her to the door.
Chapter Twenty
King Anheg's study was a large, cluttered room high in a square tower. Books
bound in heavy leather lay everywhere, and strange devices with gears and
pulleys and tiny brass chains sat on tables and stands. Intricately drawn maps,
with beautiful illuminations were pinned up on the walls, and the floor was
littered with scraps of parchment covered with tiny writing. King Anheg, hus
coarse black hair hanging in his eyes, sat at a slanted table in the soft glow
of a pair of candles studying a large book written on thin sheets of crackling
parchment.
The guard at the door let them enter without a word, and Mister Wolf stepped
briskly into the center of the room. "You wanted to see us, Anheg?"
The King of Cherek straightened from his book and laid it aside. "Belgarath," he
said with a short nod of greeting. "Polgara." He glanced at Garion who stood
uncertainly near the door.
"I meant what I said earlier," Aunt Pol said. "I'm not going to let him out of
my sight until I know for certain he's out of the reach of that Grolim,
Asharak."
"Anything you say, Polgara," Anheg said. "Come in, Garion."
"I see that you are continuing your studies," Mister Wolf said approvingly,
glancing at the littered room.
"There's so much to learn," Anheg said with a helpless gesture that included all
the welter of books and papers and strange machines. "I have a feeling that I
might have been happier if you'd never introduced me to this impossible task."
"You asked me," said Wolf simply.
"You could have said no." Anheg laughed. Then his brutish face turned serious.
He glanced once more at Garion and began to speak in an obviously oblique
manner. "I don't want to interfere," he said, "but the behavior of this Asharak
concerns me."
Garion moved away from Aunt Pol and began to study one of the strange little
machines sitting on a nearby table, being careful not to touch it.
"We'll take care of Asharak," Aunt Pol said.
But Anheg persisted. There have been rumors for centuries that you and your
father have been protecting -" he hesitated, glanced at Garion, and then
continued smoothly. "- A certain thing that must be protected at all costs.
Several of my books speak of it."
"You read too much, Anheg," Aunt Pol said.
Anheg laughed again. "It passes the time, Polgara," he said. "The alternative is
drinking with my earls, and my stomach's getting a little delicate for that and my ears as well. Have you any idea of how much noise a hall full of drunk
Chereks can make? My books don't shout or boast and they don't fall down or
slide under the tables and snore. They're much better company, really."
"Foolishness," Aunt Pol said.
"We're all foolish at one time or another," Anheg said philisophically. "But
let's get back to this other matter. If these rumors I mentioned are true,
aren't you taking some serious risks? Your search is likely to be very
dangerous."
"No place is really safe," Mister Wolf said.
"Why take chances you don't have to?" Anheg asked. "Asharak isn't the only
Grolim in the world you know."
"I can see why they call you Anheg the sly," Wolf said with a smile.
"Wouldn't it be safer to leave this certain thing in my care until you return?"
Anheg suggested.
"We've already found that not even Val Alorn is safe from the Grolims, Anheg,"
Aunt Pol said firmly. "The mines of Cthol Murgos and Gar og Nadrak are endless,
and the Grolims have more gold at their disposal than you could even imagine.
How many others like Jarvik have they bought? The Old Wolf and I arevery
experienced at protecting this certain thing you mentioned. It will be safe with
us."
"Thank you for your concern, however," Mister Wolf said.
"The matter concerns us all," Anheg said.
Garion, despite his youth and occasional recklessness, was not stupid. It was
obvious that what they were talking about involved him in some way and quite
possibly had to do with the mystery of his parentage as well. To conceal the
fact that he was listening as hard as he could, he picked up a small book bound
in a strangely textured black leather. He opened it, but there were neither
pictures or illuminations, merely a spidery-looking script that seemed strangely
repulsive.
Aunt Pol, who always seemed to know what he was doing, looked over at him. "What
are you doing with that?" She said sharply.
"Just looking," He said. "I can't read."
"Put it down immediately," she told him.
King Anheg smiled. "You wouldn't be able to read it anyway, Garion," he said.
"It's written in Old Angarak."
"What are you doing with that filthy thing anyway?" Aunt Pol asked Anheg. "You
of all people should know that it's forbidden."
"It's only a book, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "It doesn't have any power unless
it's permitted to."
"Besides," Anheg said, rubbing thoughtfully at the side of his face, "the book
gives us clues to the mind of our enemy. That's always a good thing to know."
"You can't know Torak's mind," Aunt Pol said, "and it's dangerous to open
yourself to him, He can poison you without your even knowing what's happening."
"I don't think there's any danger of that, Pol," Wolf said. "Anheg's mind is
well-trained enough to avoid the traps in Torak's book, They're pretty obvious
after all."
"You're an observant young man, Garion," Anheg said gravely. "You've done me a
service today, and you can call on me at any time for service in return. Know
that Anheg of Cherek is your friend." He extended hs right hand, and Garion took
it into his own without thinking.
King Anheg's eyes grew suddenly wide, and his face paled slightly. He turned
Garion's hand over and looked down at the silvery mark on the boy's palm.
Then Aunt Pol's hands were also there, firmly closing Garion's fingers and
removing him from Anheg's grip.
"It's true, then," Anheg said softly.
"Enough," Aunt Pol said. "Don't confuse the boy." Her hands were still firmly
holding Garion's. "Come along, dear," she said. "It's time to finish packing."
And she turned and led him from the room.
Garion's mind was racing, What was there about the mark on his hand that had so
startled Anheg? The birthmark, he knew, was hereditary. Aunt Pol had once told
him that his father's hand had had the same mark, but why would that be of
interest to Anheg? It had gone too far, His need to know became almost
unbearable. He had to know about his parents, about Aunt Pol - about all of it.
If the answers hurt, then they'd just have to hurt. At least he would know.
The next morning was clear, and they left the palace for the harbor quite early.
They all gathered in the courtyard where the sleighs waited.
"There's no need for you to come out in the cold like this, Merel," Barak told
his fur-robed wife as she mounted the sleigh beside him.
"I have a duty to see my Lord safely to his ship," she replied with an arrogant
lift of her chin.
Barak sighed. "Whatever you wish," he said.
With King Anheg and Queen Islena in the lead, the sleighs whirled out of the
courtyard and into the snowy streets.
The sun was very bright, and the air was crisp. Garion rode silently with Silk
and Hettar.
"Why so quiet, Garion?" Silk asked.
"A lot of things have happened here that I don't understand," Garion said.
"No one can understand everything," Hettar said rather sententiously.
"Chereks are a violent and moody people," Silk said. "They don't even understand
themselves."
"It's not just the Chereks," Garion said, struggling with the words. "It's Aunt
Pol and Mister Wolf and Asharak - all of it. Things are happening too fast. I
can't get it all sorted out."
"Events are like horses," Hettar told him. "Sometimes they run away. After
they've run for a while, though, they'll start to walk again, Then there'll be
time to put everything together."
"I hope so," Garion said dubiously and fell silent again.
The sleighs came round a corner into the broad square before the temple of
Belar. The blind woman was there again and Garion realized that he had been
half-expecting her. She stood on the steps of the temple and raised her staff.
Unaccountably, the horses which pulled the sleighs stopped, trembling, despite
the urgings of the drivers.
"Hail, Great One," the blind woman said. "I wish thee well on thy journey."
The sleigh in which Garion was riding had stopped closest to the temple steps,
and it seemed that the old woman was speaking to him. Almost without thinking he
answered, "Thank you. But why do you call me that?"
She ignored the question. "Remember me," she commanded, bowing deeply. "Remember
Martje when thou comest into thine inheritance."
It was the second time she'd said that, and Garion felt a sharp pang of
curiosity. "What inheritance?" he demanded.
But Barak was roaring with fury and struggling to throw off the fur robe and
draw his sword at the same time. King Anheg was also climbing down from his
sleigh, his coarse face livid with rage.
"No!" Aunt Pol said sharply from nearby. "I'll tend to this." She stood up.
"Hear me witch-woman," she said in a clear voice, casting back the hood of her
cloak. "I think you see too much with those blind eyes of yours. I'm going to do
you a favor so that you'll no longer be troubled by the darkness and these
disturbing visions which grow out of it."
"Strike me down if it please thee, Polgara," the old woman said. "I see what I
see."
"I won't strike you down, Martje," Aunt Pol said. "I'm going to give you a gift
instead." She raised her hand in a brief and curious gesture.
Garion saw it happen quite plainly, so there was no way that he could persuade
himself that it had all been some trick of the eye. He was looking directly at
Martje's face and saw the white film drain down off her eyes like milk draining
down the inside of a glass.
The old woman stood frozen on the spot as the bright blue of her eyes emerged
from the film which had covered them. And then she screamed. She held up her
hands and looked at them and screamed again. There was in her scream a wrenching
note of indescribable loss.
"What did you do," Queen Islena demanded.
"I gave her back her eyes," Aunt Pol said, sitting down again and rearranging
the fur robe about her.
"You can do that?" Islena asked, her face blanching and her voice weak.
"Can't you? It's a simple thing, really."
"But," Queen Porenn objected, "with her eyes restored, she'll lose that other
vision, won't she?"
"I imagine so," Aunt Pol said, "but that's a small price to pay, isn't it?"
"She'll no longer be a witch, then?" Porenn pressed.
"She wasn't a very good witch anyway," Aunt Pol said. "Her vision was clouded
and uncertain. It's better this way, She won't be disturbing herself and others
with shadows anymore." She looked at King Anheg who sat frozen in awe beside his
half-fainting queen. "Shall we continue?" she asked calmly. "Our ship is
waiting."
The horses, as if released by her words, leaped forward, and the sleighs sped
away from the temple, spraying snow from their runners.
Garion glanced back once. Old Martje stood on the steps of the temple looking at
her two outstretched hands and sobbing uncontrollably.
"We've been been privileged to witness a miracle, my friends," Hettar said.
"I gather, however, that the beneficiary was not very pleased with it," Silk
said dryly. "Remind me not to offend Polgara. Her miracles seem to have two
edges to them."
Chapter Twenty-one
The low-slanting rays of the morning sun glittered on the icy waters of the
harbor as their sleighs halted near the stone quays. Greldik's ship rocked and
strained at her hawsers, and a smaller ship also waited with seeming impatience.
Hettar stepped down and went over to speak to Cho-Hag and Queen Silar. The three
of them talked together quietly and seriously, drawing a kind of shell of
privacy about them.
Queen Islena had partially regained her composure and sat in her sleigh
straight-backed and with a fixed smile on her face. After Anheg had gone to
speak with Mister Wolf, Aunt Pol crossed the Icy wharf and stopped near the
sleigh of the Queen of Cherek.
"If I were you, Islena," she said firmly, "I'd find another hobby. Your gifts in
the arts of sorcery are limited, and it's a dangerous area for dabbling. Too
many things can go wrong if you don't know what you are doing.
The queen stared at her mutely.
"Oh," Aunt Pol said, "one other thing. It would be best, I think, if you broke
off your connections with the Bear-cult. It's hardly proper for a queen to have
dealings with her husband's political enemies."
Islena's eyes widened. "Does Anheg know?" she asked in a stricken voice.
"I wouldn't be suprised," Aunt Pol said. "He's much more clever than he looks,
you know. You'rewalking very close to the edge of treason. You ought to have a
few babies. They'd give you something useful to do with your time and keep you
out of trouble. That's only a suggestion, of course, but you might think it
over. I've enjoyed our visit, dear. Thank you for your hospitality." And with
that she turned and walked away.
Silk whistled softly. That explains a few things," he said.
"Explains what?" Garion asked.
"The High Priest of Belar's been dabbling in Cherek politics lately. He's
obviously gone a bit further than I'd thought in penetrating the palace."
"The queen?" Garion asked, startled.
"Islena's obsessed with the idea of magic," Silk said. "The Bear-cultists dabble
in certain kinds of rituals that might look sort of mystical to someone as
gullible as she is." He looked quickly toward where King Rhodar was speaking
with the other kings and Mister Wolf. Then he drew a deep breath. "Let's go talk
to Porenn," he said and led the way across the wharf to where the tiny blond
Queen of Drasnia stood looking out at the icy sea.
"Highness," Silk said deferentially.
"Dear Kheldar," she said, smiling at him.
"Could you give some information to my uncle for me?" he asked.
"Of course."
"It seems that Queen Islena's been a bit indiscreet," Silk said. "She's been
involved with the Bear-cult here in Cherek."
"Oh dear," Porenn said. "Does Anheg know?"
"It's hard to say," Silk told her. "I doubt if he'd admit it if he did. Garion
and I happened to hear Polgara tell her to stop it."
"I hope that puts an end to it," Porenn said. "If it went too far, Anheg would
have to take steps. That could be tragic."
"Polgara was quite firm," Silk said. "I think Islena will do as she was told,
but advise my uncle. He likes to be kept aware of this kind of thing."
"I'll tell him about it," she said.
"You might also suggest that he keep his eyes on the local chapters of the cult
in Boktor and Kotu," Silk suggested. "This kind of thing isn't usually isolated.
It's been about 50 years since the last time the cult had to be suppressed."
Queen Porenn nodded gravely. "I'll see to it that he knows," she said. "I've got
some of my own people planted in the Bear-cult. As soon as we get back to
Boktor, I'll talk with them and see what's afoot."
"Your people? Have you gone that far already?" Silk asked in a bantering tone.
"You're maturing rapidly, my Queen. It won't be long until you're as corrupt as
the rest of us."
"Boktor is full of intrigue, Kheldar," the queen said primly. "It isn't just the
Bear-cult, you know. Merchants from all over the world gather in our city, and
at least half of them are spies. I have to protect myself - and my husband."
"Does Rhodar know what you're up to?" Silk asked slyly.
"Of course he does," she said. "He gave me my first dozen spies himself - as a
wedding present.
"How typically Drasnian," Silk said.
"It's only practical, after all," she said. "My husband's concerned with matters
involving other kingdoms. I try to keep an eye on things at home to leave his
mind free for that kind of thing. My operations are a bit more modest than his,
but I manage to stay aware of things." She looked at him slyly from beneath her
eyelashes. "If you ever decide to come home to Boktor and settle down I might
just be able to find work for you."
Silk laughed. "The whole world seems to be full of opportunities lately," he
said.
The queen looked at him seriously. "When are you coming home, Kheldar?" she
asked. "When will you stop being this vagabond, Silk, and come back where you
belong? My husband misses you very much, and you could serve Drasnia more by
becoming his chief advisor than all this flitting about the world."
Silk looked away, squinting into the bright wintry sun. "Not just yet, your
Highness," he said. "Belgarath needs me too, and this is a very important thing
we're doing just now. Besides, I'm not ready to settle down yet. The game is
still entertaining. Perhaps someday when we're all much older it won't be
anymore - who knows?"
She sighed. "I miss you too Kheldar," she said gently.
"Poor, lonely little queen," Silk said, half-mockingly.
"You're impossible," she said, stamping her tiny foot.
"One does one's best." He grinned.
Hettar had embraced his father and mother and leaped across to the deck of the
small ship King Anheg had provided him. "Belgarath," he called as the sailors
slipped the stout ropes that bound the ship to the quay, "I'll meet you in two
weeks at the ruins of Vo Wacune."
"We'll be there," Mister Wolf replied.
The sailors pushed the ship away from the quay and began to row out into the
bay. Hettar stood on the deck, his long scalp lock flowing in the wind. He waved
once, then turned to face the sea.
A long plank was run down over the side of Captain Greldik's ship to the snow
covered stones.
"Shall we go on board, Garion?" Silk said. They climbed the precarious plank and
stepped out onto the deck.
"Give our daughters my love," Barak said to his wife.
"I will, my Lord," Merel said in the same stiffly formal tone she always used
with him. "Have you any other instructions?"
"I won't be back for some time," Barak said. "Plant the south fields to oats
this year, and let the west fields lie fallow. Do whatever you think best with
the north fields. And don't move the cattle up to the high pastures until all
the frost is out of the ground."
"I'll be most careful of my husband's lands and herds," she said.
"They're yours too," Barak said.
"As my husband wishes."
Barak sighed. "You never let it rest, do you, Merel?" He said sadly.
"My Lord?"
"Forget it."
"Will my Lord embrace me before he leaves?" she asked.
"What's the point?" Barak said. He jumped across to the ship and immediately
went below.
Aunt Pol stopped on her way to the ship and looked gravely at Barak's wife.
Then, without warning, she suddenly laughed.
"Something amusing, Lady Polgara?" Merel asked.
"Very amusing, Merel," Aunt Pol said with a mysterious smile.
"Might I be permitted to share it?"
"Oh, you'll share it, Merel," Aunt Pol promised, "but I wouldn't want to spoil
it for you by telling you too soon." She laughed again and stepped onto the
plank that led to the ship. Durnik offered his hand to steady her, and the two
of them crossed to the deck.
Mister Wolf clasped hands with each of the kings on turn and then nimbly crossed
to the ship. He stood for a moment on the deck looking at the ancient,
snow-shrouded city of Val Alorn and the towering mountains of Cherek rising
behind.
"Farewell, Belgarath," King Anheg called.
Mister Wolf nodded. "Don't forget about the minstrels," he said.
"We won't," Anheg promised. "Good luck."
Mister Wolf grinned and then walked forward toward the prow of Greldik's ship.
Garion, on an impulse, followed him. There were questions which needed answers,
and the old man would know if anyone would.
"Mister Wolf," he said when they had both reached the high prow.
"Yes, Garion?"
He was not sure where to start, so Garion approached the problem obliquely. "How
did Aunt Pol do that to old Martje's eyes?"
"The Will and the Word," Wolf said, his long cloak whipping about him in the
stiff breeze. "It isn't difficult."
"I don't understand," Garion said.
"You simply will something to happen," the old man said, "and then speak the
word. If your will's strong enough, it happens."
"That's all there is to it?" Garion asked, a little disappointed.
"That's all," Wolf said.
"Is the word a magic word?"
Wolf laughed, looking out at the sun glittering sharply on the winter sea. "No,"
he said. "There aren't any magic words. Some people think so, but they're wrong.
Grolims use strange words, but that's not really necessary. Any word will do the
job. It's the Will that's important, not the Word. The Word's just a channel for
the Will."
"Could I do it?" Garion asked hopefully.
Wolf looked at him. "I don't know, Garion," he said. "I wasn't much older than
you are the first time I did it, but I'd been living with Aldur for several
years. That makes a difference, I suppose."
"What happened?"
"My Master wanted me to move a rock," Wolf said. "He seemed to think that it was
in his way. I tried to move it, but it was too heavy. After a while I got angry,
and I told it to move. It did. I was a little suprised, but my Master didn't
think it so unusual."
"You just said, 'move?' That's all?" Garion was incredulous.
"That's all." Wolf shrugged. "It seemed so simple that I was suprised I hadn't
thought of it before. At the time I imagined that anybody could do it, but men
have changed quite a bit since then. Maybe it isn't possible anymore. It's hard
to say, really."
"I always thought that sorcery had to be done with long spells and strange signs
and things like that," Garion said.
"Those are just the devices of tricksters and charlatans," Wolf said. "They make
a fine show and impress and frighten simple people, but spells and incantations
have nothing to do with the real thing, It's all in the Will. Focus the Will and
speak the Word, and it happens. Sometimes a gesture of sorts helps, but it isn't
really necessary. Your Aunt has always seemed to want to gesture when she makes
something happen. I've been trying to break her of that habit for hundreds of
years now."
Garion blinked. "Hundreds of years?" he gasped. "How old is she?"
"Older than she looks," Wolf said. "It isn't polite to ask questions about a
lady's age, however."
Garion felt a sudden, shocking emptiness. The worst of his fears had been
confirmed. "Then she isn't really my Aunt, is she?" he asked sickly.
"What makes you say that?" Wolf asked.
She couldn't be, could she? I always thought that she was my father's sister,
but if she's hundreds and thousands of years old, it would be impossible."
"You're much to fond of that word, Garion," Wolf said. "When you get right down
to it, nothing - or at least very little - is actually impossible."
"How could she be? My Aunt I mean?"
"All right," Wolf said. "Polgara was not strictly speaking your father's sister.
Her relationship to him is quite more complex. She was the sister of his
grandmother - his ultimate grandmother, it there is such a term - and of yours
as well, of course."
"Then she'd be my great-aunt," Garion said with a faint in spark of hope. It was
something, at least.
"I don't know that I'd use that precise term around her." Wolf grinned. "She
might take offense. Why are you so concerned about all of this?"
"I was afraid that maybe she'd just said that she was my Aunt, and that there
wasn't really any connection between us at all," Garion said. "I've been afraid
of that for quite a while now."
"Why were you afraid?"
"It's kind of hard to explain," Garion said. "You see, I don't really know who
or what I am. Silk says I'm not a Sendar, and Barak says I look sort of like a
Rivan - but not exactly. I always thought I was a Sendar - like Durnik - but I
guess I'm not. I don't know anything about my parents or where they come from or
anything like that. If Aunt Pol isn't related to me, then I don't have anybody
in the world at all. I'm all alone, and that's a very bad thing."
"But now it's alright, isn't it?" Wolf said, your Aunt really is your Aunt - at
least your blood and hers are the same."
"I'm glad you told me," Garion said. "I've been worried about it."
Greldik's sailors untied the hawsers and began to push the ship away from the
quay.
"Mister Wolf," Garion said as a strange thought occurred to him.
"Yes, Garion?"
"Aunt Pol really is my Aunt - or my Great-Aunt?"
"Yes."
"And she's your daughter."
"I have to admit that she is," Wolf said wryly. "I try to forget that sometimes,
but I can't really deny it."
Garion took a deep breath and plunged directly into it. "If she's my Aunt, and
you're her father," he said, "wouldn't that sort of make you my Grandfather?"
Wolf looked at him with a startled expression. "Why yes," he said, laughing
suddenly, "I suppose that in a way it does. I'd never thought of it exactly like
that before."
Garion's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he impulsively embraced the old
man. "Grandfather," he said, trying the word out.
""Well, well," Wolf said, his own voice strangely thick. "What a remarkable
discovery." Awkwardly he patted Garion's shoulder.
"They were both a little embarrassed by Garion's sudden display of affection,
and they stood silently, watching as Greldik's sailors rowed the ship out into
the harbor.
"Grandfather," Garion said after a little while.
"Yes?"
"What really happened to my mother and father? I mean, how did they die?"
Wolf's face became very bleak. "There was a fire," he said shortly.
"A fire?" Garion said weakly, his imagination lurching back from that awful
thought - of the unspeakable pain. "How did it happen?"
"It's not very pleasant," Wolf said grimly. "Aew you really sure you want to
know?"
"I have to, Grandfather," Garion said quietly. "I have to know everything I can
about them. I don't know why, but it's very important."
Mister Wolf sighed. "Yes, Garion," he said, "I guess it would be at that. All
right, then. If you're old enough to ask the questions, you're old enough to
hear the answers." He sat down on a sheltered bench out of the chilly wind.
"Come over here and sit down." He patted the bench beside him.
Garion sat down and pulled his cloak around him.
"Let's see," Wolf said, scratching thoughtfully at his beard, "where do we
start?" He pondered for a moment. "Your family's very old, Garion," he said
finally, "and like so many old families, it has a certain number of enemies."
"Enemies?" Garion was startled. That particular idea hadn't occurred to him
before.
"It's not uncommon," Wolf said. "When we do something someone else doesn't like,
they tend to hate us. The hatred builds up over the years until it turns into
something almost like a religion. They hate not only us, but everything
connected with us. Anyway, a long time ago your family's enemies became so
dangerous that your Aunt and I decided that the only way we could protect the
family was to hide it."
"You aren't telling me everything," Garion said.
"No," said Wolf blandly, "I'm not. I'm telling you as much as it's safe for you
to know right now. If you knew certain things, you'd act differently, and people
would notice that. It's safer if you remain ordinary for a while longer."
"You mean ignorant," Garion accused.
"All right, ignorant then. Do you want to hear the story, or do you want to
argue?"
"I'm sorry," Garion said.
"It's all right," Wolf said, patting Garion's shoulder. "Since your Aunt and I
are related to your family in rather a special way, we were naturally interested
in your safety. That's why we hid your people."
"Can you actually hide a whole family?" Garion asked.
"It's never been that big a family," Wolf said. "It seems, for one reason or
another, to be a single, unbroken line - no cousins or uncles or that kind of
thing. It's not all that hard to hide a man and wife with a single child. We've
been doing it for hundreds of years now. We've hidden them in Tolnedra, Riva,
Cherek, Drasnia - all kinds of places. They've lived simple lives - artisans
mostly, sometimes ordinary peasants - the kind of people nobody would ever look
at twice. Anyway, everything had gone well until about twenty years ago. We
moved your father, Geran, from a place in Arendia to a little village in eastern
Sendaria, about sixty leagues southeast of Darine, up in the mountains. Geran
was a stonecutter - didn't I tell you that once before?"
Garion nodded. "A long time ago," he said. "You said you liked him and used to
visit him once in a while. Was my mother a Sendar then?"
"No," Wolf said. "Ildera as an Algar, actually - the second daughter of a Clan
Chief. Your Aunt and I introduced her to Geran whenthey were about the right
age. The usual sort of thing happened, and they got married. You were born a
year or so afterward."
"When was the fire?" Garion asked.
"I'm getting to that," Wolf said. One of the enemies of your family had been
looking for your people for a long time."
"How long?"
"Hundreds of years, actually."
"That means he was a sorcerer, too, doesn't it?" Garion asked. "I mean, only
sorcerers live for that long, don't they?"
"He has certain capabilities along those linesm" Wolf admitted. "Sorcerer is a
misleading term, though. It's not the sort of thing we actually call ourselves.
Other people do, but we don't exactly think of it that way. It's a convenient
term for people who don't really understand what it's all about. Anyway, your
Aunt and I happened to be away when this enemy finally tracked down Geran and
Ildera. He came to their house very early one morning while they were still
sleeping and he sealed up the doors and windows. And then he set it on fire."
"I thought you said the house was made of stone."
"It was," Wolf said, "but you can make stone burn if you really want to. The
fire just has to be hotter, that's all. Geran and Ildera knew there was no way
they could get out of the burning building, but Geran managed to knock one of
the stones out of the wall, and Ildera pushed you out through the hole. The one
who started the fire was waiting for that. He picked you up and started out of
the village. We could never be sure exactly what he had in mind - either he was
going to kill you, or maybe he was going to keep you for some reason of his own.
At any rate, that's when I got there. I put out the fire, but Geran and Ildera
were already dead. Then I went after the one who'd stolen you."
"Did you kill him?" Garion demanded fiercely.
"I try not to do that more than I have to," Wolf said. "It disrupts the natural
course of events too much. I had some other ideas at the time - much more
unpleasant than killing." His eyes were icy. "As it turned out though, I never
got the chance. He threw you at me - you were only a baby - and I had to try to
catch you. It gave him time to get away. I left you with Polgara and then I went
looking for your enemy. I haven't been able to find him yet, though."
"I'm glad you haven't," Garion said.
Wolf looked a little suprised at that.
"When I get older, I'm going to find him," Garion said, "I think I ought to be
the one who pays him back for what he did, don't you?"
Wolf looked at him gravely. "It could be dangerous," he said.
"I don't care. What's his name?"
"I think that maybe I better wait a while before I tell you that," Wolf said. "I
don't want you jumping into something before you're ready."
"But you will tell me?"
"When the time comes."
"It's very important, Grandfather"
"Yes," Wolf said. "I can see that."
"Do you promise?"
"If you insist. And if I don't, I'm sure your Aunt will. She feels the same way
you do."
"Don't you?"
"I'm much older," Wolf said. "I see things a little differently."
"I'm not that old yet," Garion said. "I won't be able to do the kind of things
you'd do, so I'll have to settle for just killing him." He stood up and began to
pace back and forth, a rage boiling in him.
"I don't suppose I'll be able to talk you out of this," Wolf said, "but I really
think you're going to feel differently about it after it's over."
"Not likely," Garion said, still pacing.
"We'll see," Wolf said.
"Thank you for telling me, Grandfather," Garion said.
"You'd have found out sooner or later anyway," the old man said, "and it's
better that I tell you than for you to get a distorted account from someone
else."
"You mean Aunt Pol?"
"Polgara wouldn't deliberately lie to you," Wolf said, "but she sees things in a
much more personal way than I do. Sometimes that colors her perceptions. I try
to take the long view of things. I could take - under the circumstances."
Garion looked at the old man whose white hair and beard seemed somehow luminous
in the morning sun. "What's it like to live forever, Grandfather?" He asked.
"I don't know," Wolf said. "I haven't lived forever."
"You know what I mean."
"The quality of life isn't much different," Wolf said. "We all live as long as
we need to. It just happened that that I have something to do that's taken a
very long time." He stood up abruptly. "This conversation's taken a gloomy
turn," he said.
"This thing that we're doing is very important, isn't it, Grandfather?" Garion
asked.
"It's the most important thing in the world right now," Wolf said.
"I'm afraid I'm not going to be very much help," Garion said.
Wolf looked at him gravely for a moment and then put one arm round his
shoulders. "I think you may be suprised about that before it's all over,
Garion," he said.
And then they turned and looked out over the prow of the ship at the snowy coast
of Cherek sliding by on their right as the sailors rowed the ship south towards
Camaar and whatever lay beyond.
*
Here ends Book One of the Belgariad. Book Two, Queen of Sorcery
will reveal Garion's own dangerous powers of sorcery and more on his heritage,
which underlies their quest.
The Belgariad: Queen of SorceryQUEEN OF SORCERY
For Helen,
who gave me the most precious thing in my life,
and for Mike,
who taught me how to play.
PROLOGUE
Being an Account of the Battle of the Kingdoms of the West against the most
heinous Invasion and Evil of Kal Torak.
-based upon The Battle of Vo Mimbre
IN THE YOUTH of the world, the evil God Torak stole the Orb of Aldur and fled,
seeking dominion. The Orb resisted, and its fire maimed him with a dreadful
burning. But he would not give it up, for it was precious to him.
Then Belgarath, a sorcerer and disciple of the God Aldur, led forth the king of
the Alorns and his three sons, and they reclaimed the Orb from the iron tower of
Torak. Torak sought to pursue, but the wrath of the Orb repelled him and drove
him back.
Belgarath set Cherek and his sons to be kings over four great kingdoms in
eternal guard against Torak. The Orb he gave to Riva to keep, saying that so
long as a descendant of Riva held the Orb the West would be safe.
Century followed century with no menace from Torak, until the spring of 4865,
when Drasnia was invaded by a vast horde of Nadraks, Thulls, and Murgos. In the
center of this sea of Angaraks was borne the huge iron pavilion of one called
Kal Torak, which means King and God. Cities and villages were razed and burned,
for Kal Torak came to destroy, not to conquer. Those of the people who lived
were given to the steel-masked Grolim priests for sacrifice in the unspeakable
rites of the Angaraks. None survived save those who fled to Algaria or were
taken from the mouth of the Aldur River by Cherek warships.
Next the horde struck south at Algaria. But there they found no cities. The
nomadic Algarian horsemen fell back before them, then struck in vicious
hit-and-run attacks. The traditional seat of the Algarian kings was the
Stronghold, a man-made mountain with stone walls thirty feet thick. Against
this, the Angaraks hurled themselves in vain before settling down to besiege the
place. The siege lasted for eight futile years.
This gave the West time to mobilize and prepare. The generals gathered at the
Imperial War College in Tol Honeth and planned their strategy. National
differences were set aside, and Brand, the Warder of Riva, was chosen to have
full command. With him came two strange advisers: an ancient but vigorous man
who claimed knowledge even of the Angarak kingdoms; and a strikingly handsome
woman with a silver lock at her brow and an imperious manner. To these Brand
listened, and to them he paid almost deferential respect.
In the late spring of 4875, Kal Torak abandoned his siege and turned west toward
the sea, pursued still by Algar horsemen. In the mountains, the Ulgos came forth
from their caverns by night and wreaked fearful slaughter on the sleeping
Angaraks. But still were the forces of Kal Torak beyond counting. After a pause
to regroup, the host proceeded down the valley of the River Arend toward the
city of Vo Mimbre, destroying all in its path. Early in the summer, the Angaraks
deployed for the assault upon the city.
On the third day of the battle, a horn was heard to blow three times. Then the
gates of Vo Mimbre opened, and the Mimbrate knights charged out to fall upon the
front of the Angarak horde, the iron-shod hoofs of their chargers trampling
living and dead. From the left came Algar cavalry, Drasnian pikemen, and veiled
Ulgo irregulars. And from the right came the Cherek berserks and the legions of
Tolnedra.
Attacked on three sides, Kal Torak committed his reserves. It was then that the
gray-clad Rivans, the Sendars, and the Asturian archers came upon his forces
from the rear. The Angaraks began to fall like mown wheat and were overcome by
confusion.
Then the Apostate, Zedar the Sorcerer, went in haste to the black iron pavilion
from which Kal Torak had not yet emerged. And to the Accursed One he said,
"Lord, throe enemies have thee surrounded in great numbers. Yea, even the gray
Rivans have come in their numbers to cast defiance at thy might."
Kal Torak arose in anger and declared, "I will come forth, that the false
keepers of Cthrag Yaska, the jewel which was mine, shall see me and know fear of
me. Send to me my kings."
"Great Lord," Zedar told him, "thy kings are no more. The battle hath claimed
their lives and those of a multitude of thy Grolim priests as well."
Kal Torak's wrath grew great at these words, and fire spat from his right eye
and from the eye that was not. He ordered his servants to bind his shield to the
arm on which he had no hand and he took up his dread black sword. With this, he
went forth to do battle.
Then came a voice from the midst of the Rivans, saying, "In the name of Belar I
defy thee, Torak. In the name of Aldur I cast my despite in thy teeth. Let the
bloodshed be abated, and I will meet thee to decide the battle. I am Brand,
Warder of Riva. Meet me or take the stinking host away and come no more against
the kingdoms of the West."
Kal Torak strode apart from the host and cried, "Where is he who dares pit his
mortal flesh against the King of the World? Behold, I am Torak, King of Kings
and Lord of Lords. I will destroy this loud-voiced Rivan. Mine enemies shall
perish, and Cthrag Yaska shall again be mine."
Brand stood forth. He bore a mighty sword and a shield muffled with cloth. A
grizzled wolf marched at his side, and a snowy owl hovered over his head. Brand
said, "I am Brand and I will contend with thee, foul and misshapen Torak."
When Torak saw the wolf, he said, "Begone, Belgarath. Flee if thou wouldst save
thy life." And to the owl he said, "Abjure thy father, Polgara, and worship me.
I will wed thee and make thee Queen of the World."
But the wolf howled defiance, and the owl screeched her scorn. Torak raised his
sword and smote down upon the shield of Brand. Long they fought, and many and
grievous were the blows they struck. Those who stood near to see them were
amazed. The fury of Torak grew great, and his sword battered the shield of Brand
until the Warder fell back before the onslaught of the Accursed One. Then the
wolf howled and the owl shrieked in one voice together, and the strength of
Brand was renewed.
With a single motion, the Rivan Warder unveiled his shield, in the center of
which stood a round jewel, in size like the heart of a child. As Torak gazed
upon it, the stone began to glow and flame. The Accursed One drew back from it.
He dropped his shield and sword and raised his arms before his face to ward away
the dread fire of the stone.
Brand struck, and his sword pierced Torak's visor to strike into the eye that
was not and plunge into the Accursed One's head. Torak fell back and gave a
great cry. He plucked out the sword and threw off his helmet. Those who watched
recoiled in terror, for his face was seared by some great fire and was horrible
to behold. Weeping blood, Torak cried out again as he beheld the jewel which he
had named Cthrag Yaska and for which he had brought his war into the West. Then
he collapsed, and the earth resounded with his fall.
A great cry went up from the host of the Angaraks when they saw what had
befallen Kal Torak, and they sought to flee in their panic. But the armies of
the West pursued them and slew them, so that when the smoky dawn broke on the
fourth day, the host was no more.
Brand asked that the body of the Accursed One be brought to him, that he might
behold him who would be king of all the world. But the body was not to be found.
In the night, Zedar the Sorcerer had cast an enchantment and passed unseen
through the armies of the West, bearing away the one he had chosen as master.
Then Brand took counsel with his advisers. And Belgarath said to him, "Torak is
not dead. He only sleeps. For he is a God and cannot be slain by any mortal
weapon."
"When will he awaken?" Brand asked. "I must prepare the West against his
return."
Polgara answered, "When once again a King of Riva's line sits on his northern
throne, the Dark God will waken to do war with him."
Brand frowned, saying, "But that is neverl" For all knew that the last Rivan
King had been slain with his family in 4002 by Nyissan assassins.
Again the woman spoke. "In the fullness of time the Rivan King will rise to
claim his own, as the ancient Prophecy foretells. More cannot be said."
Brand was content and set his armies to cleaning the battlefield of the wreckage
of Angaraks. And when that was finished, the kings of the West gathered before
the city of Vo Mimbre and held council. Many were the voices raised in praise of
Brand.
Soon men began crying that Brand should henceforth be chosen as ruler of all the
West. Only Mergon, ambassador of Imperial Tolnedra, protested in the name of his
Emperor, Ran Borune IV. Brand refused the honor, and the proposal was dropped,
so that there was again peace among those assembled in council. But in return
for peace, a demand was made of Tolnedra.
The Gorim of the Ulgos spoke first in a loud voice. "In fulfillment of the
Prophecy, there must be promised a princess of Tolnedra to be wife unto the
Rivan King who will come to save the world. This the Gods require of us."
Again Mergon protested. "The Hall of the Rivan King is empty and desolate. No
king sits upon the Rivan throne. How many a princess of Imperial Tolnedra be wed
with a phantom?"
Then the woman who was Polgara replied. "The Rivan King will return to assume
his throne and claim his bride. From this day forward, therefore, each princess
of Imperial Tolnedra shall present herself in the Hall of the Rivan King upon
her sixteenth birthday. She shall be clad in her wedding gown and shall abide
there for three days against the coming of the King. If he comes not to claim
her, then she shall be free to return to her father for whatever he may decree
for her."
Mergon cried out. "All Tolnedra shall rise against this indignity. No! It shall
not be!"
The wise Gorim of the Ulgos spoke again. "Tell your Emperor that this is the
will of the Gods. Tell him also that in the day Tolnedra fails in this, the West
shall rise against him and scatter the sons of Nedra to the winds and pull down
the might of the Empire, until Imperial Tolnedra is no more."
At that, seeing the might of the armies before him, the ambassador submitted to
the matter. All then agreed and were bound to it.
When that was done, the nobles of strife-torn Arendia came to Brand, saying,
"The king of the Mimbrates is dead and the duke of the Asturians also. Who now
shall rule us? For two thousand years has war between Mimbre and Asturia rent
fair Arendia. How may we become one people again?"
Brand considered. "Who is heir to the Mimbrate throne?" "Korodullin is crown
prince of the Mimbrates," the nobles replied. "And to whom descends the Asturian
line?"
"Mayaserana is the daughter of the Asturian duke," they told him. Brand said,
"Bring them to me." And when they were brought before Brand, he said to them,
"The bloodshed between Mimbre and Asturia must end. Therefore, it is my will
that you be wed to each other and that the houses which so long have warred
shall thus be joined."
The two cried against the judgment, for they were filled with ancient enmity and
with the pride of their separate lines. But Belgarath took Korodullin aside and
spoke in private with him. And Polgara withdrew Mayaserana to a separate place
and was long in converse with her. No man learned then or later what was said to
the two young people. But when they returned to where Brand waited, Mayaserana
and Korodullin were content that they should be wed. And this was the final act
of the council that met after the battle of Vo Mimbre.
Brand spoke to all the kings and nobles one final time before departing for the
north.
"Much has been wrought here that is good and shall endure. Behold, we have met
together against the Angaraks and they have been overthrown. Evil Torak is
quelled. And the covenant we have made here among us prepares the West for the
day of the Prophecy when the Rivan King shall return and Torak shall wake from
his long sleep to contend again for empire and dominion. All that may be done in
this day to prepare for the great and final war has been done. We can do no
more. And here, perchance, the wounds of Arendia have been healed, and the
strife of more than two thousand years may see its end. So far as may be, I am
content with it all.
"Hail, then, and farewell!"
He turned from them and rode north with the grizzled man who was Belgarath and
the queenly woman who was Polgara by his side. They took ship at Camaar in
Sendaria and set sail for Riva. And Brand returned no more to the kingdoms of
the West.
But of his companions are many tales told. And of that telling, what may be true
and what false few men may know.
Part One
ARENDIA
Chapter One
VO WACUNE WAS NO MORE. Twenty-four centuries had passed since the city of the
Wacite Arends had been laid waste, and the dark, endless forests of northern
Arendia had reclaimed the ruins. Broken walls had toppled and been swallowed up
in the moss and wet brown bracken of the forest floor, and only the shattered
stumps of the once proud towers moldered among the trees and fog to mark the
place where Vo Wacune had stood. Sodden snow blanketed the mist-shrouded ruins,
and trickles of water ran down the faces of ancient stones like tears.
Garion wandered alone down the tree-choked avenues of the dead city, his stout
gray wool cloak drawn tight against the chill, and his thoughts as mournful as
the weeping stones around him. Faldor's farm with its green, sun-drenched fields
was so far behind him that it seemed lost in a kind of receding haze, and he was
desperately homesick. No matter how hard he tried to hold onto them, details
kept escaping him. The rich smells of Aunt Pol's kitchen were only a faint
memory; the ring of Durnik's hammer in the smithy faded like the dying echo of
the last note of a bell, and the sharp, clear faces of his playmates wavered in
his remembrance of them until he could no longer be sure that he would even
recognize them. His childhood was slipping away, and try though he might he
could not hold on to it.
Everything was changing; that was the whole problem. The core of his life, the
rock upon which his childhood had been built, had always been Aunt Pol. In the
simple world of Faldor's farm she had been Mistress Pol, the cook, but in the
world beyond Faldor's gate she was Polgara the Sorceress, who had watched the
passage of four millennia with a purpose beyond mortal comprehension.
And Mister Wolf, the old vagabond storyteller, had also changed. Garion knew now
that this old friend was in fact his great-great grandfather - with an infinite
number of additional "greats" added on for good measure - but that behind that
roguish old face there had always been the steady gaze of Belgarath the
Sorcerer, who had watched and waited as he had looked upon the folly of men and
Gods for seven thousand years. Garion sighed and trudged on through the fog.
Their very names were unsettling. Garion had never wanted to believe in sorcery
or magic or witchcraft. Such things were unnatural, and they violated his notion
of solid, sensible reality. But too many things had happened to allow him to
hold on to his comfortable skepticism any longer. In a single, shattering
instant the last vestiges of his doubt had been swept away. As he had watched
with stunned disbelief, Aunt Pol had erased the milky stains from the eyes of
Martje the witch with a gesture and a single word, restoring the madwoman's
sight and removing her power to see into the future with a brutal
evenhandedness. Garion shuddered at the memory of Martje's despairing wail. That
cry somehow marked the point at which the world had become less solid, less
sensible, and infinitely less safe.
Uprooted from the only place he had ever known, unsure of the identities of the
two people closest to him, and with his whole conception of the difference
between the possible and the impossible destroyed, Garion found himself
committed to a strange pilgrimage. He had no idea what they were doing in this
shattered city swallowed up in trees, and not the faintest idea where they would
go when they left. The only certainty that remained to him was the single grim
thought to which he now clung; somewhere in the world there was a man who had
crept through the predawn darkness to a small house in a forgotten village and
had murdered Garion's parents; if it took him the rest of his life, Garion was
going to find that man, and when he found him, he was going to kill him. There
was something strangely comforting in that one solid fact.
He carefully climbed over the rubble of a house that had fallen outward into the
street and continued his gloomy exploration of the ruined city. There was really
nothing to see. The patient centuries had erased nearly all of what the war had
left behind, and slushy snow and thick fog hid even those last remaining traces.
Garion sighed again and began to retrace his steps toward the moldering stump of
the tower where they had all spent the previous night.
As he approached, he saw Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol standing together some
distance from the ruined tower, talking quietly. The old man's rust-colored hood
was turned up, and Aunt Pol's blue cloak was drawn about her. There was a look
of timeless regret on her face as she looked out at the foggy ruins. Her long,
dark hair spilled down her back, and the single white lock at her brow seemed
paler than the snow at her feet.
"There he is now," Mister Wolf said to her as Garion approached them.
She nodded and looked gravely at Garion. "Where have you been?" she asked.
"No place," Garion replied. "I was thinking, that's all."
"I see you've managed to soak your feet."
Garion lifted one of his sodden brown boots and looked down at the muddy slush
clinging to it. "The snow's wetter than I thought," he apologized.
"Does wearing that thing really make you feel better?" Mister Wolf asked,
pointing at the sword Garion always wore now.
"Everybody keeps saying how dangerous Arendia is," Garion explained. "Besides, I
need to get used to it." He shifted the creaking new leather sword belt around
until the wirebound hilt was not so obvious. The sword had been an Erastide
present from Barak, one of several gifts he had received when the holiday had
passed while they were at sea.
"It doesn't really suit you, you know," the old man told him somewhat
disapprovingly.
"Leave him alone, father," Aunt Pol said almost absently. "It's his, after all,
and he can wear it if he likes."
"Shouldn't Hettar be here by now?" Garion asked, wanting to change the subject.
"He may have run into deep snow in the mountains of Sendaria," Wolf replied.
"He'll be here. Hettar's very dependable."
"I don't see why we just didn't buy horses in Camaar."
"They wouldn't have been as good," Mister Wolf answered, scratching at his
short, white beard. "We've got a long way to go, and I don't want to have to
worry about a horse foundering under me somewhere along the way. It's a lot
better to take a little time now than to lose more time later."
Garion reached back and rubbed at his neck where the chain of the curiously
carved silver amulet Wolf and Aunt Pol had given him for Erastide had chafed his
skin.
"Don't worry at it, dear," Aunt Pol told him.
"I wish you'd let me wear it outside my clothes," he complained. "Nobody can see
it under my tunic."
"It has to be next to your skin."
"It's not very comfortable. It looks nice enough, I suppose, but sometimes it
seems cold, and other times it's hot, and once in a while it seems to be awfully
heavy. The chain keeps rubbing at my neck. I guess I'm not used to ornaments."
"It's not entirely an ornament, dear," she told him. "You'll get used to it in
time."
Wolf laughed. "Maybe it will make you feel better to know that it took your Aunt
ten years to get used to hers. I was forever telling her to put it back on."
"I don't know that we need to go into that just now, father," Aunt Pol answered
coolly.
"Do you have one, too?" Garion asked the old man, suddenly curious about it.
"Of course."
"Does it mean something that we all wear them?"
"It's a family custom, Garion," Aunt Pol told him in a tone that ended the
discussion. The fog eddied around them as a chill, damp breeze briefly swirled
through the ruins.
Garion sighed. "I wish Hettar would get here. I'd like to get away from this
place. It's like a graveyard."
"It wasn't always this way," Aunt Pol said very quietly.
"What was it like?"
"I was happy here. The walls were high, and the towers soared. We all thought it
would last forever." She pointed toward a rank patch of winter-browned brambles
creeping over the broken stones. "Over there was a flower-filled garden where
ladies in pale yellow dresses used to sit while young men sang to them from
beyond the garden wall. The voices of the young men were very sweet, and the
ladies would sigh and throw bright red roses over the wall to them. And down
that avenue was a marble-paved square where the old men met to talk of forgotten
wars and long-gone companions. Beyond that there was a house with a terrace
where I used to sit with friends in the evening to watch the stars come out
while a boy brought us chilled fruit and the nightingales sang as if their
hearts were breaking." Her voice drifted off into silence. "But then the
Asturians came," she went on, and there was a different note then. "You'd be
surprised at how little time it takes to tear down something that took a
thousand years to build."
"Don't worry at it, Pol," Wolf told her. "These things happen from time to time.
There's not a great deal we can do about it."
"I could have done something, father," she replied, looking off into the ruins.
"But you wouldn't let me, remember?"
"Do we have to go over that again, Pol?" Wolf asked in a pained voice. "You have
to learn to accept your losses. The Wacite Arends were doomed anyway. At best,
you'd have only been able to stall off the inevitable for a few months. We're
not who we are and what we are in order to get mixed up in things that don't
have any meaning."
"So you said before." She looked around at the filmy trees marching away in the
fog down the empty streets. "I didn't think the trees would come back so fast,"
she said with a strange little catch in her voice. "I thought they might have
waited a little longer."
"It's been almost twenty-five centuries, Pol."
"Really? It seems like only last year."
"Don't brood about it. It'll only make you melancholy. Why don't we go inside?
The fog's beginning to make us all a bit moody."
Unaccountably, Aunt Pol put her arm about Garion's shoulders as they turned
toward the tower. Her fragrance and the sense of her closeness brought a lump to
his throat. The distance that had grown between them in the past few months
seemed to vanish at her touch.
The chamber in the base of the tower had been built of such massive stones that
neither the passage of centuries nor the silent, probing tendrils of tree roots
had been able to dislodge them. Great, shallow arches supported the low stone
ceiling, making the room seem almost like a cave. At the end of the room
opposite the narrow doorway a wide crack between two of the rough-hewn blocks
provided a natural chimney. Durnik had soberly considered the crack the previous
evening when they had arrived, cold and wet, and then had quickly constructed a
crude but efficient fireplace out of rubble. "It will serve," the smith had said
"Not very elegant perhaps, but good enough for a few days."
As Wolf, Garion and Aunt Pol entered the low, cavelike chamber, a good fire
crackled in the fireplace, casting looming shadows among the low arches and
radiating a welcome warmth. Durnik in his brown leather tunic was stacking
firewood along the wall. Barak, huge, redbearded, and mail-shined, was polishing
his sword. Silk, in an unbleached linen shirt and black leather vest, lounged
idly on one of the packs, toying with a pair of dice.
"Any sign of Hettar yet?" Barak asked, looking up.
"It's a day or so early," Mister Wolf replied, going to the fireplace to warm
himself.
"Why don't you change your boots, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested, hanging her blue
cloak on one of the pegs Durnik had hammered into a crack in the wall.
Garion lifted his pack down from another peg and began rummaging through it.
"Your stockings, too," she added.
"Is the fog lifting at all?" Silk asked Mister Wolf.
"Not a chance."
"If I can persuade you all to move out from in front of the fire, I'll see about
supper," Aunt Pol told them, suddenly very businesslike. She began setting out a
ham, a few loaves of dark, peasant bread, a sack of dried peas and a dozen or so
leathery-looking carrots, humming softly to herself as she always did when she
was cooking.
The next morning after breakfast, Garion pulled on a fleece-lined overvest,
belted on his sword, and went back out into the fog-muffled ruins to watch for
Hettar. It was a task to which he had appointed himself, and he was grateful
that none of his friends had seen fit to tell him that it wasn't really
necessary. As he trudged through the slushcovered streets toward the broken west
gate of the city, he made a conscious effort to avoid the melancholy brooding
that had blackened the previous day. Since there was absolutely nothing he could
do about his circumstances, chewing on them would only leave a sour taste in his
mouth. He was not exactly cheerful when he reached the low piece of wall by the
west gate, but he was not precisely gloomy either.
The wall offered some protection, but the damp chill still crept through his
clothes, and his feet were already cold. He shivered and settled down to wait.
There was no point in trying to see any distance in the fog, so he concentrated
on listening. His ears began to sort out the sounds in the forest beyond the
wall, the drip of water from the trees, the occasional sodden thump of snow
sliding from the limbs, and the tapping of a woodpecker working on a dead snag
several hundred yards away.
"That's my cow," a voice said suddenly from somewhere off in the fog.
Garion froze and stood silently, listening.
"Keep her in your own pasture, then," another voice replied shortly. "Is that
you, Lammer?" the first voice asked.
"Right. You're Detton, aren't you?"
"I didn't recognize you. How longs it been?"
"Four or five years, I suppose," Lammer judged.
"How are things going in your village?" Detton asked.
"We're hungry. The taxes took all our food."
"Ours too. We've been eating boiled tree roots."
"We haven't tried that yet. We're eating our shoes."
"How's your wife?" Detton asked politely.
"She died last year," Lammer answered in a flat, unemotional voice. "My lord
took our son for a soldier, and he was killed in a battle somewhere. They poured
boiling pitch on him. After that my wife stopped eating. It didn't take her long
to die."
"I'm sorry," Detton sympathized. "She was very beautiful."
"They're both better off," Lammer declared. "They aren't cold or hungry anymore.
Which kind of tree roots have you been eating?"
"Birch is the best," Detton told him. "Spruce has too much pitch, and oak's too
tough. You boil some grass with the roots to give them a bit of flavor."
"I'll have to try it."
"I've got to get back," Detton said. "My lord's got me clearing trees, and he'll
have me flogged if I stay away too long."
"Maybe I'll see you again sometime."
"If we both live."
"Good-bye, Detton."
"Good-bye, Lammer."
The two voices drifted away. Garion stood quite still for a long time after they
were gone, his mind numb with shock and with tears of sympathy standing in his
eyes. The worst part of it was the matter-of fact way in which the two had
accepted it all. A terrible anger began to burn in his throat. He wanted
suddenly to hit somebody.
Then there was another sound off in the fog. Somewhere in the forest nearby
someone was singing. The voice was a light, clear tenor, and Garion could hear
it quite plainly as it drew closer. The song was filled with ancient wrongs, and
the refrain was a call to battle. Irrationally, Garion's anger focused on the
unknown singer. His vapid bawling about abstract injustices seemed somehow
obscene in the face of the quiet despair of Lammer and Detton. Without thinking,
Garion drew his sword and crouched slightly behind the shattered wall.
The song came yet nearer, and Garion could hear the step of a horse's hooves in
the wet snow. Carefully he poked his head out from behind the wall as the singer
appeared out of the fog no more than twenty paces away. He was a young man
dressed in yellow hose and a bright red jerkin. His fur-lined cloak was tossed
back, and he had a long, curved bow slung over one shoulder and a well-sheathed
sword at his opposite hip. His reddish-gold hair fell smoothly down his back
from beneath a pointed cap with a feather rising from it. Although his song was
grim and he sang it in a voice throbbing with passion, there was about his
youthful face a kind of friendly openness that no amount of scowling could
erase. Garion glared at this empty-headed young nobleman, quite certain that the
singing fool had never made a meal of tree roots or mourned the passing of a
wife who had starved herself to death out of grief. The stranger turned his
horse and, still singing, rode directly toward the broken arch of the gateway
beside which Garion lurked in ambush.
Garion was not normally a belligerent boy, and under other circumstances he
might have approached the situation differently. The gaudy young stranger,
however, had presented himself at precisely the wrong time. Garion's quickly
devised plan had the advantage of simplicity. Since there was nothing to
complicate it, it worked admirably - up to a point. No sooner had the lyric
young man passed through the gate than Garion stepped from his hiding place,
grasped the back of the rider's cloak and yanked him bodily out of the saddle.
With a startled outcry and a wet splat, the stranger landed unceremoniously on
his back in the slush at Garion's feet. The second part of Garion's plan,
however, fell completely apart. Even as he moved in to take the fallen rider
prisoner at sword point, the young man rolled, came to his feet, and drew his
own sword, seemingly all in one motion. His eyes were snapping with anger, and
his sword weaved threateningly.
Garion was not a fencer, but his reflexes were good and the chores he had
performed at Faldor's farm had hardened his muscles. Despite the anger which had
moved him to attack in the first place, he had no real desire to hurt this young
man. His opponent seemed to be holding his sword lightly, almost negligently,
and Garion thought that a smart blow on the blade might very well knock it out
of his hand. He swung quickly, but the blade flicked out of the path of his
heavy swipe and clashed with a steely ring down on his own sword. Garion jumped
back and made another clumsy swing. The swords rang again. Then the air was
filled with clash and scrape and bell-like rattle as the two of them banged and
parried and feinted with their blades. It took Garion only a moment to realize
that his opponent was much better at this than he was but that the young man had
ignored several opportunities to strike at him. In spite of himself he began to
grin in the excitement of their noisy contest. The stranger's answering grin was
open, even friendly.
"All right, that's enough of that!" It was Mister Wolf. The old man was striding
toward them with Barak and Silk close on his heels. "Just exactly what do you
two think you're doing?"
Garion's opponent, after one startled glance, lowered his sword. "Belgarath-" he
began.
"Lelldorin," Wolf's tone was scathing, "have you lost what little sense you had
to begin with?"
Several things clicked into place in Garion's mind simultaneously as Wolf turned
on him coldly. "Well, Garion, would you like to explain this?"
Garion instantly decided to try guile. "Grandfather," he said, stressing the
word and giving the younger stranger a quick warning look, "you didn't think we
were really fighting, did you? Lelldorin here was just showing me how you block
somebody's sword when he attacks, that's all."
"Really?" Wolf replied skeptically.
"Of course," Garion said, all innocence now. "What possible reason could there
be for us to be trying to hurt each other?"
Lelldorin opened his mouth to speak, but Garion deliberately stepped on his
foot.
"Lelldorin's really very good," he rushed on, putting his hand in a friendly
fashion on the young man's shoulder. "He taught me a lot in just a few minutes."
-Let it stand-Silk's fingers flickered at him in the minute gestures of the
Drasnian secret language. Always keep a lie simple.
"The lad is an apt pupil, Belgarath," Lelldorin said lamely, finally
understanding.
"He's agile, if nothing else," Mister Wolf replied dryly. "What's the idea
behind all the frippery?" He indicated Lelldorin's gaudy clothes. "You look like
a maypole."
"The Mimbrates had started detaining honest Asturians for questioning," the
young Arend explained, "and I had to pass several of their strongholds. I
thought that if I dressed like one of their toadies I wouldn't be bothered."
"Maybe you've got better sense than I thought," Wolf conceded grudgingly. He
turned to Silk and Barak. "This is Lelldorin, son of the Baron of Wildantor.
He'll be joining us."
"I wanted to talk to you about that, Belgarath," Lelldorin put in quickly. "My
father commanded me to come here and I can't disobey him, but I'm pledged in a
matter of extremest urgency."
"Every young nobleman in Asturias pledged in at least two or three such matters
of urgency," Wolf replied. "I'm sorry, Lelldorin, but the matter we're involved
in is much too important to be postponed while you go out to ambush a couple of
Mimbrate tax collectors."
Aunt Pol approached them out of the fog then, with Durnik striding protectively
at her side. "What are they doing with the swords, father?" she demanded, her
eyes flashing.
"Playing," Mister Wolf replied shortly. "Or so they say. This is Lelldorin. I
think I've mentioned him to you."
Aunt Pol looked Lelldorin up and down with one raised eyebrow. "A very colorful
young man."
"The clothes are a disguise," Wolf explained. "He's not as frivolous as all that
- not quite, anyway. He's the best bowman in Asturia, and we might need his
skill before we're done with all this."
"I see," she said, somewhat unconvinced.
"There's another reason, of course," Wolf continued, "but I don't think we need
to get into that just now, do we?"
"Are you still worried about that passage, father?" she asked with exasperation.
"The Mrin Codex is very obscure, and none of the other versions say anything at
all about the people it mentions. It could be pure allegory, you know."
"I've seen a few too many allegories turn out to be plain fact to start gambling
at this point. Why don't we all go back to the tower?" he suggested. "It's a bit
cold and wet out here for lengthy debates on textual variations."
Garion glanced at Silk, baffled by this exchange, but the little man returned
his look with blank incomprehension.
"Will you help me catch my horse, Garion?" Lelldorin asked politely, sheathing
his sword.
"Of course," Garion replied, also putting away his weapon. "I think he went that
way."
Lelldorin picked up his bow, and the two of them followed the horse's tracks off
into the ruins.
"I'm sorry I pulled you off your horse," Garion apologized when they were out of
sight of the others.
"No matter." Lelldorin laughed easily. "I should have been paying more
attention." He looked quizzically at Garion. "Why did you lie to Belgarath?"
"It wasn't exactly a lie," Garion replied. "We weren't really trying to hurt
each other, and sometimes it takes hours trying to explain something like that."
Lelldorin laughed again, an infectious sort of laugh. In spite of himself,
Garion could not help joining in.
Both laughing, they continued together down an overgrown street between the low
mounds of slush-covered rubble.
Chapter Two
LELLDORIN OF WILDANTOR Was eighteen years old, although his ingenuous nature
made him seem more boyish. No emotion touched him that did not instantly
register in his expression, and sincerity shone in his face like a beacon. He
was impulsive, extravagant in his declarations, and probably, Garion reluctantly
concluded, not overly bright. It was impossible not to like him, however.
The following morning when Garion pulled on his cloak to go out and continue his
watch for Hettar, Lelldorin immediately joined him. The young Arend had changed
out of his garish clothing and now wore brown hose, a green tunic, and a dark
brown wool cape. He carried his bow and wore a quiver of arrows at his belt; as
they walked through the snow toward the broken west wall he amused himself by
loosing arrows at targets only half visible ahead of him.
"You're awfully good," Garion said admiringly after one particularly fine shot.
"I'm an Asturian," Lelldorin replied modestly. "We've been bowmen for thousands
of years. My father had the limbs of this bow cut on the day I was born, and I
could draw it by the time I was eight."
"I imagine you hunt a great deal," Garion said, thinking of the dense forest all
around them and the tracks of game he had seen in the snow.
"It's our most common pastime." Lelldorin stopped to pull the arrow he had just
shot from a tree trunk. "My father prides himself on the fact that beef or
mutton are never served at his table."
"I went hunting once, in Cherek."
"Deer?" Lelldorin asked.
"No. Wild boars. We didn't use bows though. The Chereks hunt with spears."
"Spears? How can you get close enough to kill anything with a spear?"
Garion laughed a bit ruefully, remembering his bruised ribs and aching head.
"Getting close isn't the problem. It's getting away after you've speared him
that's the difficult part."
Lelldorin didn't seem to grasp that.
"The huntsmen form a line," Garion explained, "and they crash through the woods,
making as much noise as they can. You take your spear and wait where the boars
are likely to pass when they try to get away from the noise. Being chased makes
them bad-tempered, and when they see you, they charge. That's when you spear
them."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Lelldorin's eyes were wide.
Garion nodded. "I almost got all my ribs broken." He was not exactly boasting,
but he admitted to himself that he was pleased by Lelldorin's reaction to his
story.
"We don't have many dangerous animals in Asturia," Lelldorin said almost
wistfully. "A few bears and once in a while a pack of wolves." He seemed to
hesitate for a moment, looking closely at Garion. "Some men, though, find more
interesting things to shoot at than wild stags." He said it with a kind of
secretive sidelong glance.
"Oh?" Garion was not quite sure what he meant.
"Hardly a day goes by that some Mimbrate's horse doesn't come home riderless."
Garion was shocked at that.
"Some men think that there are too many Mimbrates in Asturia," Lelldorin
explained with heavy emphasis.
"1 thought that the Arendish civil war was over."
"There are many who don't believe that. There are many who believe that the war
will continue until Asturia is free of the Mimbrate crown." Lelldorin's tone
left no question as to where he stood in the matter.
"Wasn't the country unified after the Battle of Vo Mimbre?" Garion objected.
"Unified? How could anybody believe that? Asturia is treated like a subject
province. The king's court is at Vo Mimbre; every governor, every tax collector,
every bailiff, every high sheriff in the kingdom is a Mimbrate. There's not a
single Asturian in a position of authority anywhere in Arendia. The Mimbrates
even refuse to recognize our titles. My father, whose line extends back a
thousand years, is called landowner. A Mimbrate would sooner bite out his tongue
than call him Baron." Lelldorin's face had gone white with suppressed
indignation.
"I didn't know that," Garion said carefully, not sure how to handle the young
man's feelings.
"Asturia's humiliation is almost at an end, however," Lelldorin declared
fervently. "There are some men in Asturia for whom patriotism is not dead, and
the time is not far off when these men will hunt royal game." He emphasized his
statement by snapping an arrow at a distant tree.
That confirmed the worst of Garion's fears. Lelldorin was a bit too familiar
with the details not to be involved in this plot.
As if he had realized himself that he had gone too far, Lelldorin stared at
Garion with consternation. "I'm a fool," he blurted with a guilty look around
him. "I've never learned to control my tongue. Please forget what I just said,
Garion. I know you're my friend, and I know you won't betray what I said in a
moment of heat."
That was the one thing Garion had feared. With that single statement, Lelldorin
had effectively sealed his lips. He knew that Mister Wolf should be warned that
some wild scheme was afoot, but Lelldorin's declaration of friendship and trust
had made it impossible for him to speak. He wanted to grind his teeth with
frustration as he stared full in the face of a major moral dilemma.
They walked on, neither of them speaking and both a little embarrassed, until
they reached the bit of wall where Garion had waited in ambush the day before.
For a time they stared out into the fog, their strained silence growing more
uncomfortable by the moment.
"What's it like in Sendaria?" Lelldorin asked suddenly. "I've never been there."
"There aren't so many trees," Garion answered, looking over the wall at the dark
trunks marching off in the fog. "It's an orderly kind of place."
"Where did you live there?"
"At Faldor's farm. It's near Lake Erat."
"Is this Faldor a nobleman?"
"Faldor?" Garion laughed. "No, Faldor's as common as old shoes. He's just a
farmer - decent, honest, good-hearted. I miss him."
"A commoner, then," Lelldorin said, seeming ready to dismiss Faldor as a man of
no consequence.
"Rank doesn't mean very much in Sendaria," Garion told him rather pointedly.
"What a man does is more important than what he is." He made a wry face. "I was
a scullery boy. It's not very pleasant, but somebody's got to do it, I suppose."
"Not a serf, certainly?" Lelldorin sounded shocked.
"There aren't any serfs in Sendaria."
"No serfs?" The young Arend stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"No," Garion said firmly. "We've never found it necessary to have serfs."
Lelldorin's expression clearly showed that he was baffled by the notion. Garion
remembered the voices that had come to him out of the fog the day before, but he
resisted the urge to say something about serfdom. Lelldorin would never
understand, and the two of them were very close to friendship. Garion felt that
he needed a friend just now and he didn't want to spoil things by saying
something that would offend this likeable young man.
"What sort of work does your father do?" Lelldorin asked politely.
"He's dead. So's my mother." Garion found that if he said it quickly, it didn't
hurt so much.
Lelldorin's eyes filled in sudden, impulsive sympathy. He put his hand
consolingly on Garion's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice almost
breaking. "It must have been a terrible loss."
"I was a baby." Garion shrugged, trying to sound offhand about it. "I don't even
remember them." It was still too personal to talk about.
"Some pestilence?" Lelldorin asked gently.
"No," Garion answered in the same flat tone. "They were murdered."
Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide.
"A man crept into their village at night and set fire to their house," Garion
continued unemotionally. "My grandfather tried to catch him, but he got away.
From what I understand, the man is a very old enemy of my family."
"Surely you're not going to let it stand like that?" Lelldorin demanded.
"No," Garion replied, still looking out into the fog. "As soon as I'm old
enough, I'm going to find him and kill him."
"Good lad!" Lelldorin exclaimed, suddenly catching Garion in a rough embrace.
"We'll find him and cut him to pieces."
"We?"
"I'll be going with you, of course," Lelldorin declared. "No true friend could
do any less." He was obviously speaking on impulse, but just as obviously he was
totally sincere. He gripped Garion's hand firmly. "I swear to you, Garion, I
won't rest until the murderer of your parents lies dead at your feet."
The sudden declaration was so totally predictable that Garion silently berated
himself for not keeping his mouth shut. His feelings in the matter were very
personal, and he was not really sure he wanted company in his search for his
faceless enemy. Another part of his mind, however, rejoiced in Lelldorin's
impulsive but unquestioning support. He decided to let the subject drop. He knew
Lelldorin well enough by now to realize that the young man undoubtedly made a
dozen devout promises a day, quickly offered in absolute sincerity, and just as
quickly forgotten.
They talked then of other things, standing close together beside the shattered
wall with their dark cloaks drawn tightly about them.
Shortly before noon Garion heard the muffled sound of horses' hooves somewhere
out in the forest. A few minutes later, Hettar materialized out of the fog with
a dozen wild-looking horses trailing after him. The tall Algar wore a short,
fleece-lined leather cape. His boots were mudspattered and his clothes
travel-stained, but otherwise he seemed unaffected by his two weeks in the
saddle.
"Garion," he said gravely by way of greeting and Garion and Lelldorin stepped
out to meet him.
"We've been waiting for you," Garion told him and introduced Lelldorin. "We'll
show you where the others are."
Hettar nodded and followed the two young men through the ruins to the tower
where Mister Wolf and the others were waiting. "Snow in the mountains," the
Algar remarked laconically by way of explanation as he swung down from his
horse. "It delayed me a bit." He pulled his hood back from his shaved head and
shook out his long, black scalp lock.
"No harm's been done," Mister Wolf replied. "Come inside to the fire and have
something to eat. We've got a lot to talk about."
Hettar looked at the horses, his tan, weathered face growing strangely blank as
if he were concentrating. The horses all looked back at him, their eyes alert
and their ears pointed sharply forward. Then they turned and picked their way
off among the trees.
"Won't they stray?" Durnik wanted to know.
"No," Hettar answered. "I asked them not to."
Durnik looked puzzled, but he let it pass.
They all went into the tower and sat near the fireplace. Aunt Pol cut dark bread
and pale, yellow cheese for them while Durnik put more wood on the fire.
"Cho-Hag sent word to the Clan-Chiefs," Hettar reported, pulling off his cape.
He wore a black, long-sleeved horsehide jacket with steel discs riveted to it to
form a kind of flexible armor. "They're gathering at the Stronghold for
council." He unbelted the curved sabre he wore, laid it to one side and sat near
the fire to eat.
Wolf nodded. "Is anyone trying to get through to Prolgu?"
"I sent a troop of my own men to the Gorim before I left," Hettar responded.
"They'll get through if anyone can."
"I hope so," Wolf stated. "The Gorim's an old friend of mine, and I'll need his
help before all this is finished."
"Aren't your people afraid of the Land of the Ulgos?" Lelldorin inquired
politely. "I've heard that there are monsters there that feed on the flesh of
men."
Hettar shrugged. "They stay in their lairs in the wintertime. Besides, they're
seldom brave enough to attack a full troop of mounted men." He looked over at
Mister Wolf. "Southern Sendaria's crawling with Murgos. Or did you know that?"
"I could have guessed," Wolf replied. "Did they seem to be looking for anything
in particular?"
"I don't talk with Murgos," Hettar said shortly. His hooked nose and fierce eyes
made him look at that moment like a hawk about to swoop down to the kill.
"I'm surprised you weren't delayed even more," Silk bantered. "The whole world
knows how you feel about Murgos."
"I indulged myself once," Hettar admitted. "I met two of them alone on the
highway. It didn't take very long."
"Two less to worry about, then," Barak grunted with approval.
"I think it's time for some plain talk," Mister Wolf said, brushing crumbs off
the front of his tunic. "Most of you have some notion of what we're doing, but I
don't want anybody blundering into something by accident. We're after a man
named Zedar. He used to be one of my Master's disciples - then he went over to
Torak. Early last fall he somehow slipped into the throne room at Riva and stole
the Orb of Aldur. We're going to chase him down and get it back."
"Isn't he a sorcerer too?" Barak asked, tugging absently at a thick red braid.
"That's not the term we use," Wolf replied, "but yes, he does have a certain
amount of that kind of power. We all did - me, Beltira and Belkira, Belzedar all the rest of us. That's one of the things I wanted to warn you about."
"You all seem to have the same sort of names," Silk noticed.
"Our Master changed our names when he took us as disciples. It was a simple
change, but it meant a great deal to us."
"Wouldn't that mean that your original name was Garath?" Silk asked, his ferret
eyes narrowing shrewdly.
Mister Wolf looked startled and then laughed. "I haven't heard that name for
thousands of years. I've been Belgarath for so long that I'd almost completely
forgotten Garath. It's probably just as well. Garath was a troublesome boy - a
thief and a liar among other things."
"Some things never change," Aunt Pol observed.
"Nobody's perfect," Wolf admitted blandly.
"Why did Zedar steal the Orb?" Hettar asked, setting aside his plate.
"He's always wanted it for himself," the old man replied. "That could be it but more likely he's trying to take it to Torak. The one who delivers the Orb to
One-Eye is going to be his favorite."
"But Torak's dead," Lelldorin objected. "The Rivan Warder killed him at Vo
Mimbre."
"No," Wolf said. "Torak isn't dead; only asleep. Brand's sword wasn't the one
destined to kill him. Zedar carried him off after the battle and hid him
someplace. Someday he'll awaken - probably someday fairly soon, if I'm reading
the signs right. We've got to get the Orb back before that happens."
"This Zedar's caused a lot of trouble," Barak rumbled. "You should have dealt
with him a long time ago."
"Possibly," Wolf admitted.
"Why don't you just wave your hand and make him disappear?" Barak suggested,
making a sort of gesture with his thick fingers.
Wolf shook his head. "I can't. Not even the Gods can do that."
"We've got some big problems, then," Silk said with a frown. "Every Murgo from
here to Rak Goska's going to try to stop us from catching Zedar."
"Not necessarily," Wolf disagreed. "Zedar's got the Orb, but Ctuchik commands
the Grolims."
"Ctuchik?" Lelldorin asked.
"The Grolim High Priest. He and Zedar hate each other. I think we can count on
him to try to keep Zedar from getting to Torak with the Orb."
Barak shrugged. "What difference does it make? You and Polgara can use magic if
we run into anything difficult, can't you?"
"There are limitations on that sort of thing," Wolf said a bit evasively.
"I don't understand," Barak said, frowning.
Mister Wolf took a deep breath. "All right. As long as it's come up, let's go
into that too. Sorcery - if that's what you want to call it - is a disruption of
the natural order of things. Sometimes it has certain unexpected effects, so you
have to be very careful about what you do with it. Not only that, it makes-" He
frowned. "-Let's call it a sort of noise. That's not exactly what it is, but it
serves well enough to explain. Others with the same abilities can hear that
noise. Once Polgara and I start changing things, every Grolim in the West is
going to know exactly where we are and what we're doing. They'll keep piling
things in front of us until we're exhausted."
"It takes almost as much energy to do things that way as it does to do them with
your arms and back," Aunt Pol explained. "It's very tiring."
She sat beside the fire, carefully mending a small tear in one of Garion's
tunics.
"I didn't know that," Barak admitted. "Not many people do."
"If we have to, Pol and I can take certain steps," Wolf went on, "but we can't
keep it up forever and we can't simply make things vanish. I'm sure you can see
why."
"Oh, of course," Silk professed, though his tone indicated that he did not.
"Everything that exists depends on everything else," Aunt Pol explained quietly.
"If you were to unmake one thing, it's altogether possible that everything would
vanish."
The fire popped, and Garion jumped slightly. The vaulted chamber seemed suddenly
dark, and shadows lurked in the corners.
"That can't happen, of course," Wolf told them. "When you try to unmake
something, your will simply recoils on you. If you say, `Be not,' then you are
the one who vanishes. That's why we're very careful about what we say."
"I can understand why," Silk said, his eyes widening slightly.
"Most of the things we'll encounter can be dealt with by ordinary means," Wolf
continued. "That's the reason we've brought you together - at least that's one
of the reasons. Among you, you'll be able to handle most of the things that get
in our way. The important thing to remember is that Polgara and I have to get to
Zedar before he can reach Torak with the Orb. Zedar's found some way to touch
the Orb - I don't know how. If he can show Torak how it's done, no power on
earth will be able to stop One-Eye from becoming King and God over the whole
world."
They all sat in the ruddy, flickering light of the fire, their faces serious as
they considered that possibility.
"I think that pretty well covers everything, don't you, Pol?"
"I believe so, father," she replied, smoothing the front of her gray, homespun
gown.
Later, outside the tower as gray evening crept in among the foggy ruins of Vo
Wacune and the smell of the thick stew Aunt Pol was cooking for supper drifted
out to them, Garion turned to Silk. "Is it all really true?" he asked.
The small man looked out into the fog. "Let's act as if we believed that it is,"
he suggested. "Under the circumstances, I think it would be a bad idea to make a
mistake."
"Are you afraid too, Silk?" Garion asked.
Silk sighed. "Yes," he admitted, "but we can behave as if we believed that we
aren't, can't we?"
"I guess we can try," Garion said, and the two of them turned to go back into
the chamber at the foot of the tower where the firelight danced on the low stone
arches, holding the fog and chill at bay.
Chapter Three
THE NEXT MORNING Silk came out of the tower wearing a rich maroon doublet and a
baglike black velvet cap cocked jauntily over one ear.
"What's all that about?" Aunt Pol asked him.
"I chanced across an old friend in one of the packs," Silk replied airily.
"Radek of Boktor by name."
"What happened to Ambar of Kotu?"
"Ambar's a good enough fellow, I suppose," Silk said a bit deprecatingly, "but a
Murgo named Asharak knows about him and may have dropped his name in certain
quarters. Let's not look for trouble if we don't have to."
"Not a bad disguise," Mister Wolf agreed. "One more Drasnian merchant on the
Great West Road won't attract any attention - whatever his name."
"Please," Silk objected in an injured tone. "The name's very important. You hang
the whole disguise on the name."
"I don't see any difference," Barak asserted bluntly.
"There's all the difference in the world. Surely you can see that Ambar's a
vagabond with very little regard for ethics, while Radek's a man of substance
whose word is good in all the commercial centers of the West. Besides, Radek's
always accompanied by servants."
"Servants?" One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows shot up.
"Just for the sake of the disguise," Silk assured her quickly. "You, of course,
could never be a servant, Lady Polgara."
"Thank you."
"No one would ever believe it. You'll be my sister instead, traveling with me to
see the splendors of To1 Honeth."
"Your sister?"
"You could be my mother instead, if you prefer," Silk suggested blandly, "making
a religious pilgrimage to Mar Terrin to atone for a colorful past."
Aunt Pol gazed steadily at the small man for a moment while he grinned
impudently at her. "Someday your sense of humor's going to get you into a great
deal of trouble, Prince Kheldar."
"I'm always in trouble, Lady Polgara. I wouldn't know how to act if I weren't."
"Do you two suppose we could get started?" Mister Wolf asked.
"Just a moment more," Silk replied. "If we meet anyone and have to explain
things, you, Lelldorin, and Garion are Polgara's servants. Hettar, Barak, and
Durnik are mine."
"Anything you say," Wolf agreed wearily.
"There are reasons."
"All right."
"Don't you want to hear them?"
"Not particularly."
Silk looked a bit hurt.
"Are we ready?" Wolf asked.
"Everything's out of the tower," Durnik told him. "Oh just a moment. I forgot to
put out the fire." He went back inside.
Wolf glanced after the smith in exasperation. "What difference does it make?" he
muttered. "This place is a ruin anyway."
"Leave him alone, father," Aunt Pol said placidly. "It's the way he is."
As they prepared to mount, Barak's horse, a large, sturdy gray, sighed and threw
a reproachful look at Hettar, and the Algar chuckled.
"What's so funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously.
"The horse said something," Hettar replied. "Never mind."
Then they swung into their saddles and threaded their way out of the foggy ruins
and along the narrow, muddy track that wound into the forest. Sodden snow lay
under wet trees, and water dripped continually from the branches overhead. They
all drew their cloaks about them to ward off the chill and dampness. Once they
were under the trees, Lelldorin pulled his horse in beside Garion's, and they
rode together.
"Is Prince Kheldar always so - well - extremely complicated?" he asked.
"Silk? Oh yes. He's very devious. You see, he's a spy, and disguises and clever
lies are second nature to him."
"A spy? Really?" Lelldorin's eyes brightened as his imagination caught hold of
the idea.
"He works for his uncle, the King of Drasnia," Garion explained. "From what I
understand, the Drasnians have been at this sort of thing for centuries."
"We've got to stop and pick up the rest of the packs," Silk was reminding Mister
Wolf.
"I haven't forgotten," the old man replied.
"Packs?" Lelldorin asked.
"Silk picked up some wool cloth in Camaar," Garion told him. "He said it would
give us a legitimate reason to be on the highway. We hid them in a cave when we
left the road to come to Vo Wacune."
"He thinks of everything, doesn't he?"
"He tries. We're lucky to have him with us."
"Maybe we could have him show us a few things about disguises," Lelldorin
suggested brightly. "It might be very useful when we go looking for your enemy."
Garion had thought that Lelldorin had forgotten his impulsive pledge. The young
Arend's mind seemed too flighty to keep hold of one idea for very long, but he
saw now that Lelldorin only seemed to forget things. The prospect of a serious
search for his parents' murderer with this young enthusiast adding
embellishments and improvisations at every turn began to present itself
alarmingly.
By midmorning, after they had picked up Silk's packs and lashed them to the
backs of the spare horses, they were back out on the Great West Road, the
Tolnedran highway running through the heart of the forest. They rode south at a
loping canter that ate up the miles.
They passed a heavily burdened serf clothed in scraps and pieces of sackcloth
tied on with bits of string. The serf's face was gaunt, and he was very thin
under his dirty rags. He stepped off the road and stared at them with
apprehension until they had passed. Garion felt a sudden stab of compassion. He
briefly remembered Lammer and Detton, and he wondered what would finally happen
to them. It seemed important for some reason. "Is it really necessary to keep
them so poor?" he demanded of Lelldorin, unable to hold it in any longer.
"Who?" Lelldorin asked, looking around.
"That serf."
Lelldorin glanced back over his shoulder at the ragged man. "You didn't even see
him," Garion accused.
Lelldorin shrugged. "There are so many."
"And they all dress in rags and live on the edge of starvation."
"Mimbrate taxes," Lelldorin replied as if that explained everything.
"You seem to have always had enough to eat."
"I'm not a serf, Garion," Lelldorin answered patiently. "The poorest people
always suffer the most. It's the way the world is."
"It doesn't have to be," Garion retorted.
"You just don't understand."
"No. And I never will."
"Naturally not," Lelldorin said with infuriating complacency. "You're not
Arendish."
Garion clenched his teeth to hold back the obvious reply.
By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues, and the snow had largely
disappeared from the roadside. "Shouldn't we start to give some thought to where
we're going to spend the night, father?" Aunt Pol suggested.
Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard as he squinted at the shadows
hovering in the trees around them.
"I have an uncle who lives not far from here," Lelldorin offered, "Count
Reldegen. I'm sure he'll be glad to give us shelter."
"Thin?" Mister Wolf asked. "Dark hair?"
"It's gray now," Lelldorin replied. "Do you know him?"
"I haven't seen him for twenty years," Wolf told him. "As I recall, he used to
be quite a hothead."
"Uncle Reldegen? You must have him confused with somebody else, Belgarath."
"Maybe," Wolf said. "How far is it to his house?"
"No more than a league and a half away."
"Let's go see him," Wolf decided.
Lelldorin shook his reins and moved into the lead to show them the way.
"How are you and your friend getting along?" Silk asked, falling in beside
Garion.
"Fine, I suppose," Garion replied, not quite sure how the rat-faced little man
intended the question. "It seems to be a little hard to explain things to him
though."
"That's only natural," Silk observed. "He's an Arend, after all."
Garion quickly came to Lelldorin's defense. "He's honest and very brave."
"They all are. That's part of the problem."
"I like him," Garion asserted.
"So do I, Garion, but that doesn't keep me from realizing the truth about him."
"If you're trying to say something, why don't you just go ahead and say it?"
"All right, I will. Don't let friendship get the better of your good sense.
Arendia's a very dangerous place, and Arends tend to blunder into disasters
quite regularly. Don't let your exuberant young companion drag you into
something that's none of your business." Silk's look was direct, and Garion
realized that the little man was quite serious.
"I'll be careful," he promised.
"I knew I could count on you," Silk said gravely.
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Would I do that, Garion?" Silk asked mockingly. Then he laughed and they rode
on together through the gloomy afternoon.
The gray stone house of Count Reldegen was about a mile back in the forest from
the highway, and it stood in the center of a clearing that extended beyond
bowshot in every direction. Although it had no wall, it had somehow the look of
a fort. The windows facing out were narrow and covered with iron gratings.
Strong turrets surmounted by battlements stood at each corner, and the gate
which opened into the central courtyard of the house was made of whole tree
trunks, squared off and strapped together with iron bands. Garion stared at the
brooding pile as they approached in the rapidly fading light. There was a kind
of haughty ugliness about the house, a grim solidity that seemed to defy the
world.
"It's not a very pleasant-looking sort of place, is it?" he said to Silk.
"Asturian architecture's a reflection of their society," Silk replied. "A strong
house isn't a bad idea in a country where neighborhood disputes sometimes get
out of hand."
"Are they all so afraid of each other?"
"Just cautious, Garion. Just cautious."
Lelldorin dismounted before the heavy gate and spoke to someone on the other
side through a small grill. There was finally a rattling of chains and the
grinding sound of heavy, iron-shod bars sliding back.
"I wouldn't make any quick moves once we're inside," Silk advised quietly.
"There'll probably be archers watching us."
Garion looked at him sharply.
"A quaint custom of the region," Silk informed him.
They rode into a cobblestoned courtyard and dismounted.
Count Reldegen, when he appeared, was a tall, thin man with irongray hair and
beard who walked with the aid of a stout cane. He wore a rich green doublet and
black hose; despite the fact that he was in his own house, he carried a sword at
his side. He limped heavily down a broad flight of stairs from the house to
greet them.
"Uncle," Lelldorin said, bowing respectfully.
"Nephew," the count replied in polite acknowledgment.
"My friends and I found ourselves in the vicinity," Lelldorin stated, "and we
thought we might impose on you for the night."
"You're always welcome, nephew," Reldegen answered with a kind of grave
formality. "Have you dined yet?"
"No, uncle."
"Then you must all take supper with me. May I know your friends?"
Mister Wolf pushed back his hood and stepped forward. "You and I are already
acquainted, Reldegen," he said.
The count's eyes widened. "Belgarath? Is it realy you?"
Wolf grinned. "Oh, yes. I'm still wandering about the world, stirring up
mischief."
Reldegen laughed then and grasped Wolf's upper arm warmly. "Come inside, all of
you. Let's not stand about in the cold." He turned and limped up the steps to
the house.
"What happened to your leg?" Wolf asked him.
"An arrow in the knee." The count shrugged. "The result of an old disagreement long since forgotten."
"As I recall, you used to get involved in quite a few of those. I thought for a
while that you intended to go through life with your sword half drawn."
"I was an excitable youth," the count admitted, opening the broad door at the
top of the steps. He led them down a long hallway to a room of imposing size
with a large blazing fireplace at each end. Great curving stone arches supported
the ceiling. The floor was of polished black stone, scattered with fur rugs, and
the walls, arches, and ceiling were whitewashed in gleaming contrast. Heavy,
carved chairs of dark brown wood sat here and there, and a great table with an
iron candelabra in its center stood near the fireplace at one end. A dozen or so
leather-bound books were scattered on its polished surface.
"Books, Reldegen?" Mister Wolf said in amazement as he and the others removed
their cloaks and gave them to the servants who immediately appeared. "You have
mellowed, my friend."
The count smiled at the old man's remark.
"I'm forgetting my manners," Wolf apologized. "My daughter, Polgara. Pol, this
is Count Reldegen, an old friend."
"My Lady," the count acknowledged with an exquisite bow, "my house is honored."
Aunt Pol was about to reply when two young men burst into the room, arguing
heatedly.
"You're an idiot, Berentain!" the first, a darkhaired youth in a scarlet
doublet, snapped.
"It may please thee to think so, Torasin," the second, a stout young man with
pale, curly hair and wearing a green and yellow striped tunic, replied, "but
whether it please thee or not, Asturias future is in Mimbrate hands. Thy
rancorous denouncements and sulfurous rhetoric shall not alter that fact."
"Don't thee me or thou me, Berentain," the dark-haired one sneered. "Your
imitation Mimbrate courtesy turns my stomach."
"Gentlemen, that's enough!" Count Reldegen said sharply, rapping his cane on the
stone floor. "If you two are going to insist on discussing politics, I'll have
you separated - forcibly, if necessary."
The two young men scowled at each other and then stalked off to opposite sides
of the room. "My son, Torasin," the count admitted apologetically, indicating
the dark-haired youth, "and his cousin Berentain, the son of my late wife's
brother. They've been wrangling like this for two weeks now. I had to take their
swords away from them the day after Berentain arrived."
"Political discussion is good for the blood, my Lord," Silk observed,
"especially in the winter. The heat keeps the veins from clogging up."
The count chuckled at the little man's remark.
"Prince Kheldar of the royal house of Drasnia," Mister Wolf introduced Silk.
"Your Highness," the count responded, bowing.
Silk winced slightly. "Please, my Lord. I've spent a lifetime running from that
mode of address, and I'm sure that my connection with the royal family
embarrasses my uncle almost as much as it embarrasses me."
The count laughed again with easy good nature. "Why don't we all adjourn to the
dining table?" he suggested. "Two fat deer have been turning on spits in my
kitchen since daybreak, and I recently obtained a cask of red wine from southern
Tolnedra. As I recall, Belgarath has always had a great fondness for good food
and fine wines."
"He hasn't changed, my Lord," Aunt Pol told him. "My father's ternbly
predictable, once you get to know him."
The count smiled and offered her his arm as they all moved toward a door on the
far side of the room.
"Tell me, my Lord," Aunt Pol said, "do you by chance have a bathtub in your
house?"
"Bathing in winter is dangerous, Lady Polgara," the count warned her.
"My Lord," she stated gravely, "I've been bathing winter or summer for more
years than you could possibly imagine."
"Let her bathe, Reldegen," Mister Wolf urged. "Her temper deteriorates quite
noticeably when she thinks she's getting dirty."
"A bath wouldn't hurt you either, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol retorted tartly. "You're
starting to get a bit strong from the downwind side."
Mister Wolf looked a bit injured.
Much later, after they had eaten their fill of venison, gravy-soaked bread, and
rich cherry tarts, Aunt Pol excused herself and went with a maidservant to
oversee the preparation of her bath. The men all lingered at the table over
their wine cups, their faces washed with the golden light of the many candles in
Reldegen's dining hall.
"Let me show you to your rooms," Torasin suggested to Lelldorin and Garion,
pushing back his chair and casting a look of veiled contempt across the table at
Berentain.
They followed him from the room and up a long flight of stairs toward the upper
stories of the house. "I don't want to offend you, Tor," Lelldorin said as they
climbed, "but your cousin has some peculiar ideas."
Torasin snorted. "Berentain's a jackass. He thinks he can impress the Mimbrates
by imitating their speech and by fawning on them." His dark face was angry in
the light of the candle he carried to light their way.
"Why should he want to?" Lelldorin asked.
"He's desperate for some kind of holding he can call his own," Torasin replied.
"My mother's brother has very little land to leave him. The fat idiot's all calf
eyed over the daughter of one of the barons in his district, and since the baron
won't even consider a landless suitor, Berentain's trying to wheedle an estate
from the Mimbrate governor. He'd swear fealty to the ghost of Kal Torak himself,
if he thought it would get him land."
"Doesn't he realize that he hasn't got a chance?" Lelldorin inquired. "There are
too many land-hungry Mimbrate knights around the governor for him to even think
of granting an estate to an Asturian."
"I've told him the same thing myself," Torasin declared with scathing contempt,
"but there's no reasoning with him. His behavior degrades our whole family."
Lelldorin shook his head commiseratingly as they reached an upper hall. He
looked around quickly then. "I have to talk with you, Tor," he blurted, his
voice dropping to a whisper.
Torasin looked at him sharply.
"My father's committed me to Belgarath's service in a matter of great
importance," Lelldorin hurried on in that same hushed voice. "I don't know how
long we'll be gone, so you and the others will have to kill Korodullin without
me."
Torasin's eyes went wide with horror. "We're not alone, Lelldorin!" he said in a
strangled voice.
"I'll go down to the other end of the hall," Garion said quickly.
"No," Lelldorin replied firmly, taking hold of Garion's arm. "Garion's my
friend, Tor. I have no secrets from him."
"Lelldorin, please," Garion protested. "I'm not an Asturian - I'm not even an
Arend. I don't want to know what you're planning."
"But you will know, Garion, as proof of my trust in you," Lelldorin declared.
"Next summer, when Korodullin journeys to the ruined city of Vo Astur to hold
court there for the six weeks that maintain the fiction of Arendish unity, we're
going to ambush him on the highway."
"Lelldorin!" Torasin gasped, his face turning white.
But Lelldorin was already plunging on. "It won't be just a simple ambush,
Garion. This will be a master stroke at Mimbre's heart. We're going to ambush
him in the uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires and cut him down with Tolnedran
swords. Our attack will force Mimbre to declare war on the Tolnedran Empire, and
Tolnedra will crush Mimbre like an eggshell. Mimbre will be destroyed, and
Asturia will be free!"
"Nachak will have you killed for this, Lelldorin," Torasin cried. "We've all
been sworn to secrecy on a blood oath."
"Tell the Murgo that I spit on his oath," Lelldorin said hotly. "What need have
Asturian patriots for a Murgo henchman?"
"He's providing us with gold, you blockhead!" Torasin raged, almost beside
himself. "We need his good red gold to buy the uniforms, the swords, and to
strengthen the backbones of some of our weaker friends."
"I don't need weaklings with me," Lelldorin said intensely. "A patriot does what
he does for love of his country-not for Angarak gold."
Garion's mind was moving quickly now. His moment of stunned amazement had
passed. "There was a man in Cherek," he recalled. "The Earl of Jarvik. He also
took Murgo gold and plotted to kill a king."
The two stared at him blankly.
"Something happens to a country when you kill its king," Garion explained. "No
matter how bad the king is or how good the people are who kill him, the country
falls apart for a while. Everything is confused, and there's nobody to point the
country in any one direction. Then, if you start a war between that country and
another one at the same time, you add just that much more confusion. I think
that if I were a Murgo, that's exactly the kind of confusion I'd want to see in
all the kingdoms of the West."
Garion listened to his own voice almost in amazement. There was a dry,
dispassionate quality in it that he instantly recognized. From the time of his
earliest memories that voice had always been there - inside his mind - occupying
some quiet, hidden corner, telling him when he was wrong or foolish. But the
voice had never actively interfered before in his dealings with other people.
Now, however, it spoke directly to these two young men, patiently explaining.
"Angarak gold isn't what it seems to be," he went on. "There's a kind of power
in it that corrupts you. Maybe that's why it's the color of blood. I'd think
about that before I accepted any more red gold from this Murgo Nachak. Why do
you suppose he's giving you gold and helping you with this plan of yours? He's
not an Asturian, so patriotism couldn't have anything to do with it, could it?
I'd think about that, too."
Lelldorin and his cousin looked suddenly troubled.
"I'm not going to say anything about this to anybody," Garion said. "You told me
about it in confidence, and I really wasn't supposed to hear about it anyway.
But remember that there's a lot more going on in the world right now than what's
happening here in Arendia. Now I think I'd like to get some sleep. If you'll
show me where my bed is, I'll leave you to talk things over all night, if you'd
like."
All in all, Garion thought he'd handled the whole thing rather well. He'd
planted a few doubts at the very least. He knew Arends well enough by now to
realize that it probably wouldn't be enough to turn these two around, but it was
a start.
Chapter Four
THE FOLLOWING MORNING they rode out early while the mist still hung among the
trees. Count Reldegen, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood at his gate to bid them
farewell; and Torasin, standing beside his father, seemed unable to take his
eyes off Garion's face. Garion kept his expression as blank as possible. The
fiery young Asturian seemed to be filled with doubts, and those doubts might
keep him from plunging headlong into something disastrous. It wasn't much,
Garion realized, but it was the best he could manage under the circumstances.
"Come back soon, Belgarath," Reldegen said. "Sometime when you can stay longer.
We're very isolated here, and I'd like to know what the rest of the world's
doing. We'll sit by the fire and talk away a month or two.
Mister Wolf nodded gravely. "Maybe when this business of mine is over,
Reldegen." Then he turned his horse and led the way across the wide clearing
that surrounded Reldegen's house and back once again into the gloomy forest.
"The count's an unusual Arend," Silk said lightly as they rode along. "I think I
actually detected an original thought or two in him last evening."
"He's changed a great deal," Wolf agreed.
"He sets a good table," Barak said. "I haven't felt this full since I left Val
Alorn."
"You should," Aunt Pol told him. "You ate the biggest part of one deer by
yourself."
"You're exaggerating, Polgara," Barak said.
"But not by very much," Hettar observed in his quiet voice. Lelldorin had pulled
his horse in beside Garion's, but he had not spoken. His face was as troubled as
his cousin's had been. It was obvious that he wanted to say something and just
as obvious that he didn't know how to begin.
"Go ahead," Garion said quietly. "We're good enough friends that I'm not going
to be upset if it doesn't come out exactly right."
Lelldorin looked a little sheepish.
"Am I really that obvious?"
"Honest is a better word for it," Garion told him. "You've just never learned to
hide your feelings, that's all."
"Was it really true?" Lelldorin blurted. "I'm not doubting your word, but was
there really a Murgo in Cherek plotting against King Anheg?"
"Ask Silk," Garion suggested, "or Barak, or Hettar-any of them. We were all
there."
"Nachak isn't like that, though," Lelldorin said quickly, defensively.
"Can you be sure?" Garion asked him. "The plan was his in the first place,
wasn't it? How did you happen to meet him?"
"We'd all gone down to the Great Fair, Torasin, me, several of the others. We
bought some things from a Murgo merchant, and Tor made a few remarks about
Mimbrates-you know how Tor is. The merchant said that he knew somebody we might
be interested in meeting and he introduced us to Nachak. The more we talked with
him, the more sympathetic he seemed to become to the way we felt."
"Naturally."
"He told us what the king is planning. You wouldn't believe it."
"Probably not."
Lelldorin gave him a quick, troubled look. "He's going to break up our estates
and give them to landless Mimbrate nobles." He said it accusingly.
"Did you verify that with anybody but Nachak?"
"How could we? The Mimbrates wouldn't admit it if we confronted them with it,
but it's the kind of thing Mimbrates would do."
"So you've only got Nachak's word for it? How did this plan of yours come up?"
"Nachak said that if he were an Asturian, he wouldn't let anybody take his land,
but he said that it'd be too late to try to stop them when they came with
knights and soldiers. He said that if he were doing it, he'd strike before they
were ready and that he'd do it in such a way that the Mimbrates wouldn't know
who'd done it. That's when he suggested the Tolnedran uniforms."
"When did he start giving you money?"
"I'm not sure. Tor handled that part of it."
"Did he ever say why he was giving you money?"
"He said it was out of friendship."
"Didn't that seem a little odd?"
"I'd give someone money out of friendship," Lelldorin protested.
"You're an Asturian," Garion told him. "You'd give somebody your life out of
friendship. Nachak's a Murgo, though, and I've never heard that they were all
that generous. What it comes down to, then, is that a stranger tells you that
the king's planning to take your land. Then he gives you a plan to kill the king
and start a war with Tolnedra; and to make sure you succeed with his plan, he
gives you money. Is that about it.
Lelldorin nodded mutely, his eyes stricken.
"Weren't any of you just the least bit suspicious?"
Lelldorin seemed almost about to cry.
"It's such a good plan," he burst out finally. "It couldn't help but succeed."
"That's what makes it so dangerous," Garion replied.
"Garion, what am I going to do?" Lelldorin's voice was anguished.
"I don't think there's anything you can do right now," Garion told him. "Maybe
later, after we've had time to think about it, we'll come up with something. If
we can't, we can always tell my grandfather about it. He'll think of a way to
stop it."
"We can't tell anybody," Lelldorin reminded him. "We're pledged to silence."
"We might have to break that pledge," Garion said somewhat reluctantly. "I don't
see that either of us owes that Murgo anything, but it's going to have to be up
to you. I won't say anything to anybody without your permission."
"You decide," Lelldorin pleaded then. "I can't do it, Garion."
"You're going to have to," Garion told him. "I'm sure that if you think about
it, you'll see why."
They reached the Great West Road then, and Barak led them south at a brisk trot,
cutting off the possibility of further discussion.
A league or so down the road they passed a muddy village, a dozen or so turf
roofed huts with walls made of wattles plastered over with mud. The fields
around the village were dotted with tree stumps, and a few scrawny cows grazed
near the edge of the forest. Garion could not control his indignation as he
looked at the misery implicit in the crude collection of hovels.
"Lelldorin," he said sharply, "look!"
"What? Where?" The blond young man came out of his troubled preoccupation
quickly as if expecting some danger.
"The village," Garion told him. "Look at it."
"It's only a serfs' village," Lelldorin said indifferently. "I've seen hundreds
like it." He seemed ready to return to his own inner turmoil.
"In Sendaria we wouldn't keep pigs in places like that." Garion's voice rang
with fervor. If he could only make his friend see!
Two ragged serfs were dispiritedly hacking chunks of firewood from one of the
stumps near the road. As the party approached, they dropped their axes and
bolted in terror for the forest.
"Does it make you proud, Lelldorin?" Garion demanded. "Does it make you feel
good to know that your own countrymen are so afraid of you that they run from
the very sight of you?"
Lelldorin looked baffled.
"They're serfs, Garion," he said as if that explained.
"They're men. They're not animals. Men deserve to be treated better."
"I can't do anything about it. They aren't my serfs." And with that Lelldorin's
attention turned inward again as he continued to struggle with the dilemma
Garion had placed upon him.
By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues and the cloudy sky was gradually
darkening as evening approached.
"I think we're going to have to spend the night in the forest, Belgarath," Silk
said, looking around. "There's no chance of reaching the next Tolnedran hostel."
Mister Wolf had been half-dozing in his saddle. He looked up, blinking a bit.
"All right," he replied, "but let's get back from the road a bit. Our fire could
attract attention, and too many people know we're in Arendia already."
"There's a woodcutter's track right there." Durnik pointed at a break in the
trees just ahead. "It should lead us back into the trees."
"All right," Wolf agreed.
The sound of their horses' hooves was muffled by the sodden leaves on the forest
floor as they turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track. They rode
silently for the better part of a mile until a clearing opened ahead of them.
"How about here?" Durnik asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over mossy
stones on one side of the clearing.
"It will do," Wolf agreed.
"We're going to need shelter," the smith observed.
"I bought tents in Camaar," Silk told him. "They're in the packs."
"That was foresighted of you," Aunt Pol complimented him.
"I've been in Arendia before, my Lady. I'm familiar with the weather."
"Garion and I'll go get wood for a fire then," Durnik said, climbing down from
his horse and untying his axe from his saddle.
"I'll help you," Lelldorin offered, his face still troubled.
Durnik nodded and led the way off into the trees. The woods were soaked, but the
smith seemed to know almost instinctively where to find dry fuel. They worked
quickly in the lowering twilight and soon had three large bundles of limbs and
fagots. They returned to the clearing where Silk and the others were erecting
several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood and cleared a space for the
fire with his foot. Then he knelt and began striking sparks with his knife from
a piece of flint into a wad of dry tinder he always carried. In a short time he
had a small fire going, and Aunt Pol set out her pots beside it, humming softly
to herself.
Hettar came back from tending the horses, and they all stood back watching Aunt
Pol prepare a supper from the stores Count Reldegen had pressed on them before
they had left his house that morning.
After they had eaten, they sat around the fire talking quietly.
"How far have we come today?" Durnik asked.
"Twelve leagues," Hettar estimated.
"How much farther do we have to go to get out of the forest?"
"It's eighty leagues from Camaar to the central plain," Lelldorin replied.
Durnik sighed. "A week or more. I'd hoped that it'd be only a few days."
"I know what you mean, Durnik," Barak agreed. "It's gloomy under all these
trees."
The horses, picketed near the brook, stirred uneasily. Hettar rose to his feet.
"Something wrong?" Barak asked, also rising.
"They shouldn't be-" Hettar started. Then he stopped. "Back!" he snapped.
"Away from the fire. The horses say there are men out there. Many - with
weapons." He jumped back from the fire, drawing his sabre.
Lelldorin took one startled look at him and bolted for one of the tents.
Garion's sudden disappointment in his friend was almost like a blow to the
stomach.
An arrow buzzed into the light and shattered on Barak's mail shirt.
"Arm yourselves!" the big man roared, drawing his sword.
Garion grasped Aunt Pol's sleeve and tried to pull her from the light.
"Stop that!" she snapped, jerking her sleeve free. Another arrow whizzed out of
the foggy woods. Aunt Pol flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly and
muttered a single word. The arrow bounced back as if it had struck something
solid and fell to the ground.
Then with a hoarse shout, a gang of rough, burly men burst from the edge of the
trees and splashed across the brook, brandishing swords. As Barak and Hettar
leaped forward to meet them, Lelldorin reemerged from the tent with his bow and
began loosing arrows so rapidly that his hands seemed to blur as they moved.
Garion was instantly ashamed that he had doubted his friend's courage.
With a choked cry, one of the attackers stumbled back, an arrow through his
throat. Another doubled over sharply, clutching at his stomach, and fell to the
ground, groaning. A third, quite young and with a pale, downy beard on his
cheeks, dropped heavily and sat plucking at the feathers on the shaft protruding
from his chest with a bewildered expression on his boyish face. Then he sighed
and slumped over on his side with a stream of blood coming from his nose.
The ragged-looking men faltered under the rain of Lelldorin's arrows, and then
Barak and Hettar were upon them. With a great sweep, Barak's heavy sword
shattered an upflung blade and crunched down into the angle between the neck and
shoulder of the black-whiskered man who had held it. The man collapsed. Hettar
made a quick feint with his sabre, then ran it smoothly through the body of a
pockmarked ruffian. The man stiffened, and a gush of bright blood burst from his
mouth as Hettar pulled out his blade. Durnik ran forward with his axe, and Silk
drew his long dagger from under his vest and ran directly at a man with a shaggy
brown beard. At the last moment, he dived forward, rolled and struck the bearded
man full in the chest with both feet. Without pausing he came up and ripped his
dagger into his enemy's belly. The dagger made a wet, tearing sound as it sliced
upward, and the stricken man clutched at his stomach with a scream, trying to
hold in the blue-colored loops and coils of his entrails that seemed to come
boiling out through his fingers.
Garion dived for the packs to get his own sword, but was suddenly grabbed
roughly from behind. He struggled for an instant, then felt a stunning blow on
the back of his head, and his eyes filled with a blinding flash of light.
"This is the one we want," a rough voice husked as Garion sank into
unconsciousness.
He was being carried - that much was certain. He could feel the strong arms
under him. He didn't know how long it had been since he had been struck on the
head. His ears still rang, and he was more than a little sick to his stomach. He
stayed limp, but carefully opened one eye. His vision was blurred and uncertain,
but he could make out Barak's bearded face looming above him in the darkness,
and merged with it, as once before in the snowy woods outside Val Alorn, he
seemed to see the shaggy face of a great bear. He closed his eyes, shuddered,
and started to struggle weakly.
"It's all right, Garion," Barak said, his voice sunk in a kind of despair. "It's
me."
Garion opened his eyes again, and the bear seemed to be gone. He wasn't even
sure he had ever really seen it.
"Are you all right?" Barak asked, setting him on the ground.
"They hit me on the head," Garion mumbled, his hand going to the swelling behind
his ear.
"They won't do it again," Barak muttered, his tone still despairing. Then the
huge man sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. It was dark and
difficult to see, but it looked as if Barak's shoulders were shaking with a kind
of terrible suppressed grief - a soundless, wrenching series of convulsive sobs.
"Where are we?" Garion asked, looking around into the darkness.
Barak coughed and wiped at his face.
"Quite a ways from the tents. It took me a little while to catch up to the two
who were carrying you off."
"What happened?" Garion was still a bit confused.
"They're dead. Can you stand up?"
"I don't know." Garion tried to get up, but a wave of giddiness swept over him,
and his stomach churned.
"Never mind. I'll carry you," Barak said in a now - grimly practical voice. An
owl screeched from a nearby tree, and its ghostly white shape drifted off
through the trees ahead of them. As Barak lifted him, Garion closed his eyes and
concentrated on keeping his stomach under control.
Before long they came out into the clearing and its circle of firelight.
"Is he all right?" Aunt Pol asked, looking up from bandaging a cut on Durnik's
arm.
"A bump on the head is all," Barak replied, setting Garion down.
"Did you run them off?"
His voice was harsh, even brutal.
"Those that could still run," Silk answered, his voice a bit excited and his
ferret eyes bright. "They left a few behind." He pointed at a number of still
shapes lying near the edge of the firelight.
Lelldorin came back into the clearing, looking over his shoulder and with his
bow half drawn. He was out of breath, his face was pale, and his hands were
shaking. "Are you all right?" he asked as soon as he saw Garion.
Garion nodded, gently fingering the lump behind his ear.
"I tried to find the two who took you," the young man declared, "but they were
too quick for me. There's some kind of animal out there. I heard it growling
while I was looking for you - awful growls."
"The beast is gone now," Barak told him flatly.
"What's the matter with you?" Silk asked the big man.
"Nothing."
"Who were these men?" Garion asked.
"Robbers, most likely," Silk surmised, putting away his dagger. "It's one of the
benefits of a society that holds men in serfdom. They get bored with being serfs
and go out into the forest looking for excitement and profit."
"You sound just like Garion," Lelldorin objected. "Can't you people understand
that serfdom's part of the natural order of things here? Our serfs couldn't take
care of themselves alone, so those of us in higher station accept the
responsibility of caring for them."
"Of course you do," Silk agreed sarcastically. "They're not so wellfed as your
pigs nor as well - kenneled as your dogs, but you do care for them, don't you?"
"That'll do, Silk," Aunt Pol said coolly. "Let's not start bickering among
ourselves." She tied a last knot on Durnik's bandage and came over to examine
Garion's head. She touched her fingers gently to the lump, and he winced.
"It doesn't seem too serious," she observed.
"It hurts all the same," he complained.
"Of course it does, dear," she said calmly. She dipped a cloth in a pail of cold
water and held it to the lump. "You're going to have to learn to protect your
head, Garion. If you keep banging it like this, you're going to soften your
brains."
Garion was about to answer that, but Hettar and Mister Wolf came back into the
firelight just then.
"They're still running," Hettar announced. The steel discs on his horsehide
jacket gleamed red in the flickering light, and his sabre was streaked with
blood.
"They seemed to be awfully good at that part of it," Wolf said. "Is everyone all
right?"
"A few bumps and bruises is about all," Aunt Pol told him. "It could have been
much worse."
"Let's not start worrying about what could have been."
"Shall we remove those?" Barak growled, pointing at the bodies littering the
ground near the brook.
"Shouldn't they be buried?" Durnik asked. His voice shook a little, and his face
was very pale.
"Too much trouble," Barak said bluntly. "Their friends can come back later and
take care of it - if they feel like it."
"Isn't that just a little uncivilized?" Durnik objected.
Barak shrugged. "It's customary."
Mister Wolf rolled one of the bodies over and carefully examined the dead man's
gray face.
"Looks like an ordinary Arendish outlaw," he grunted. "It's hard to say for
sure, though."
Lelldorin was retrieving his arrows, carefully pulling them out of the bodies.
"Let's drag them all over there a ways," Barak said to Hettar. "I'm getting
tired of looking at them."
Durnik looked away, and Garion saw two great tears standing in his eyes.
"Does it hurt, Durnik?" he asked sympathetically, sitting on the log beside his
friend.
"I killed one of those men, Garion," the smith replied in a shaking voice. "I
hit him in the face with my axe. He screamed, and his blood splashed all over
me. Then he fell down and kicked on the ground with his heels until he died."
"You didn't have any choice, Durnik," Garion told him. "They were trying to kill
us."
"I've never killed anyone before," Durnik said, the tears now running down his
face. "He kicked the ground for such a long time - such a terribly long time."
"Why don't you go to bed, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested firmly. Her eyes were on
Durnik's tear-streaked face.
Garion understood.
"Good night, Durnik," he said. He got up and started toward one of the tents. He
glanced back once. Aunt Pol had seated herself on the log beside the smith and
was speaking quietly to him with one of her arms comfortingly about his
shoulders.
Chapter Five
THE FIRE HAD BURNED down to a tiny orange flicker outside the tent, and the
forest around the clearing was silent. Garion lay with a throbbing head trying
to sleep. Finally, long past midnight, he gave it up. He slid out from under his
blanket and went searching for Aunt Pol.
Above the silvery fog a full moon had risen, and its light made the mist
luminous. The air around him seemed almost to glow as he picked his way
carefully through the silent camp. He scratched on the outside of her tent flap
and whispered, "Aunt Pol?" There was no answer. "Aunt Pol," he whispered a bit
louder, "it's me, Garion. May I come in?" There was still no answer, nor even
the faintest sound. Carefully he pulled back the flap and peered inside. The
tent was empty.
Puzzled, even a bit alarmed, he turned and looked around the clearing. Hettar
stood watch not far from the picketed horses, his hawk face turned toward the
foggy forest and his cape drawn about him. Garion hesitated a moment and then
stepped quietly behind the tents. He angled down through the trees and the
filmy, luminous fog toward the brook, thinking that if he bathed his aching head
in cold water it might help. He was about fifty yards from the tents when he saw
a faint movement among the trees ahead. He stopped.
A huge gray wolf padded out of the fog and stopped in the center of a small open
space among the trees. Garion drew in his breath sharply and froze beside a
large, twisted oak. The wolf sat down on the damp leaves as if he were waiting
for something. The glowing fog illuminated details Garion would not have been
able to see on an ordinary night. The wolf's ruff and shoulders were silvery,
and his muzzle was shot with gray. He carried his age with enormous dignity, and
his yellow eyes seemed calm and very wise somehow.
Garion stood absolutely still. He knew that the slightest sound would instantly
reach the sharp ears of the wolf, but it was more than that. The blow behind his
ear had made him light-headed, and the strange glow of moon-drenched fog made
this encounter seem somehow unreal. He found that he was holding his breath.
A large, snowy white owl swooped over the open space among the trees on ghosting
wings, settled on a low branch and perched there, looking down at the wolf with
an unblinking stare. The gray wolf looked calmly back at the perched bird. Then,
though there was no breath of wind, it seemed somehow that a sudden eddy in the
shimmering fog made the figures of the owl and the wolf hazy and indistinct.
When it cleared again, Mister Wolf stood in the center of the opening, and Aunt
Pol in her gray gown was seated rather sedately on the limb above him.
"It's been a long time since we've hunted together, Polgara," the old man said.
"Yes, it has, father." She raised her arms and pushed her fingers through the
long, dark weight of her hair. "I'd almost forgotten what it was like." She
seemed to shudder then with a strange kind of pleasure. "It's a very good night
for it."
"A little damp," he replied, shaking one foot.
"It's very clear above the treetops, and the stars are particularly bright. It's
a splendid night for flying."
"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Did you happen to remember what you were
supposed to be doing?"
"Don't be sarcastic, father."
"Well?"
"There's no one in the vicinity but Arends, and most of them are asleep."
"You're sure?"
"Of course. There isn't a Grolim for five leagues in any direction. Did you find
the ones you were looking for?"
"They weren't hard to follow," Wolf answered. "They're staying in a cave about
three leagues deeper into the forest. Another one of them died on their way back
there, and a couple more probably won't live until morning. The rest of them
seemed a little bitter about the way things turned out."
"I can imagine. Did you get close enough to hear what they were saying?"
He nodded. "There's a man in one of the villages nearby who watches the road and
lets them know when somebody passes by who might be worth robbing."
"Then they're just ordinary thieves?"
"Not exactly. They were watching for us in particular. We'd all been described
to them in rather complete detail."
"I think I'll go talk to this villager," she said grimly. She flexed her fingers
in an unpleasantly suggestive manner.
"It's not worth the time it would take," Wolf told her, scratching thoughtfully
at his beard. "All he'd be able to tell you is that some Murgo offered him gold.
Grolims don't bother to explain very much to their hirelings."
"We should attend to him, father," she insisted. "We don't want him lurking
behind us, trying to buy up every brigand in Arendia to send after us."
"After tomorrow he won't buy much of anything," Wolf replied with a short laugh.
"His friends plan to lure him out into the woods in the morning and cut his
throat for him - among other things."
"Good. I'd like to know who the Grolim is, though."
Wolf shrugged. "What difference does it make? There are dozens of them in
northern Arendia, all stirnng up as much trouble as they can. They know what's
coming as well as we do. We can't expect them to just sit back and let us pass."
"Shouldn't we put a stop to it?"
"We don't have the time," he said. "It takes forever to explain things to
Arends. If we move fast enough, maybe we can slip by before the Grolims are
ready."
"And if we can't?"
"Then we'll do it the other way. I've got to get to Zedar before he crosses into
Cthol Murgos. If too many things get in my way, I'll have to be more direct."
"You should have done that from the beginning, father. Sometimes you're too
delicate about things."
"Are you going to start that again? That's always your answer to everything,
Polgara. You're forever fixing things that would fix themselves if you'd just
leave them alone, and changing things when they don't have to be changed."
"Don't be cross, father. Help me down."
"Why not fly down?" he suggested.
"Don't be absurd."
Garion slipped away among the mossy trees, trembling violently as he went.
When Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf returned to the clearing, they roused the others.
"I think we'd better move on," Wolf told them. "We're a little vulnerable out
here. It's safer on the highway, and I'd like to get past this particular
stretch of woods."
The dismantling of their night's encampment took less than an hour, and they
started back along the woodcutter's track toward the Great West Road. Though it
was still some hours before dawn, the moonbathed fog filled the night with misty
luminosity, and it seemed almost as if they rode through a shining cloud that
had settled among the dark trees. They reached the highway and turned south
again.
"I'd like to be a good way from here when the sun comes up," Wolf said quietly,
"but we don't want to blunder into anything, so keep your eyes and ears open."
They set off at a canter and had covered a good three leagues by the time the
fog had begun to turn a pearly gray with the approach of morning. As they
rounded a broad curve, Hettar suddenly raised his arm, signaling for a halt.
"What's wrong?" Barak asked him.
"Horses ahead," Hettar replied. "Coming this way."
"Are you sure? I don't hear anything."
"Forty at least," Hettar answered firmly.
"There," Durnik said, his head cocked to one side. "Hear that?"
Faintly they all heard a jingling clatter some distance off in the fog. "We
could hide in the woods until they've passed," Lelldorin suggested.
"It's better to stay on the road," Wolf replied.
"Let me handle it," Silk said confidently, moving into the lead. "I've done this
sort of thing before." They proceeded at a careful walk.
The riders who emerged from the fog were encased in steel. They wore full suits
of polished armor and round helmets with pointed visors that made them look
strangely like huge insects. They earned long lances with colored pennons at
their tips, and their horses were massive beasts, also encased in armor.
"Mimbrate knights," Lelldorin snarled, his eyes going flat.
"Keep your feelings to yourself," Wolf told the young man. "If any of them say
anything to you, answer in such a way that they'll think you're a Mimbrate
sympathizer - like young Berentain back at your uncle's house."
Lelldorin's face hardened.
"Do as he tells you, Lelldorin," Aunt Pol said. "This isn't the time for
heroics."
"Hold!" the leader of the armored column commanded, lowering his lance until the
steel point was leveled at them. "Let one come forward so that I may speak with
him." The knight's tone was peremptory.
Silk moved toward the steel-cased man, his smile ingratiating. "We're glad to
see you, Sir Knight," he lied glibly. "We were set upon by robbers last night,
and we've been riding in fear of our lives."
"What is thy name?" the knight demanded, raising his visor, "and who are these
who accompany thee?"
"I am Radek of Boktor, my Lord," Silk answered, bowing and pulling off his
velvet cap, "a merchant of Drasnia bound for Tol Honeth with Sendarian woolens
in hopes of catching the winter market."
The armored man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Thy party seems overlarge for so
simple an undertaking, worthy merchant."
"The three there are my servants," Silk told him, pointing at Barak, Hettar, and
Durnik. "The old man and the boy serve my sister, a widow of independent means
who accompanies me so that she might visit Tol Honeth."
"What of the other?" the knight pressed. "The Asturian?"
"A young nobleman traveling to Vo Mimbre to visit friends there. He graciously
consented to guide us through this forest."
The knight's suspicion seemed to relax a bit. "Thou madest mention of robbers,"
he said. "Where did this ambush take place?"
"About three or four leagues back. They set upon us after we had made our
night's encampment. We managed to beat them off, but my sister was terrified."
"This province of Asturia seethes with rebellion and brigandage," the knight
said sternly. "My men and I are sent to suppress such offenses. Come here,
Asturian."
Lelldorin's nostrils flared, but he obediently came forward. "I will require thy
name of thee."
"My name is Lelldorin, Sir Knight. How may I serve thee?"
"These robbers thy friends spoke of - were they commons or men of quality?"
"Serfs, my Lord," Lelldorin replied, "ragged and uncouth. Doubtless fled from
lawful submission to their masters to take up outlawry in the forest."
"How may we expect duty and proper submission from serfs when nobles raise
detestable rebellion against the crown?" the knight asserted.
"Truly, my Lord," Lelldorin agreed with a show of sadness that was a trifle
overdone. "Much have I argued that selfsame point with those who speak endlessly
of Mimbrate oppression and overweening arrogance. My appeals for reason and
dutiful respect for His Majesty, our Lord King, however, are greeted with
derision and cold despite." He sighed.
"Thy wisdom becomes thee, young Lelldorin," the knight approved. "Regrettably, I
must detain thee and thy companions in order that we may verify certain
details."
"Sir Knight!" Silk protested vigorously. "A change in the weather could destroy
the value of my merchandise in Tol Honeth. I pray you, don't delay me."
"I regret the necessity, good merchant," the knight replied, "but Asturia is
filled with dissemblers and plotters. I can permit none to pass without
meticulous examination."
There was a stir at the rear of the Mimbrate column. In single file, resplendent
in burnished breastplates, plumed helmets and crimson capes, a half a hundred
Tolnedran legionnaires rode slowly along the flank of the armored knights.
"What seems to be the problem here?" the legion commander, a lean, leather-faced
man of forty or so, asked politely as he stopped not far from Silk's horse.
"We do not require the assistance of the legions in this matter," the knight
said coldly. "Our orders are from Vo Mimbre. We are sent to help restore order
in Asturia and we were questioning these travelers to that end."
"I have a great respect for order, Sir Knight," the Tolnedran replied, "but the
security of the highway is my responsibility." He looked inquiringly at Silk.
"I am Radek of Boktor, Captain," Silk told him, "a Drasnian merchant bound for
Tol Honeth. I have documents, if you wish to see them."
"Documents are easily forged," the knight declared.
"So they are," the Tolnedran agreed, "but to save time I make it a practice to
accept all documents at face value. A Drasnian merchant with goods in his packs
has a legitimate reason to be on an Imperial Highway, Sir Knight. There's no
reason to detain him, is there?"
"We seek to stamp out banditry and rebellion," the knight asserted hotly.
"Stamp away," the captain said, "but off the highway, if you don't mind. By
treaty the Imperial Highway is Tolnedran territory. What you do once you're
fifty yards back in the trees is your affair; what happens on this road is mine.
I'm certain that no true Mimbrate knight would want to humiliate his king by
violating a solemn agreement between the Arendish crown and the Emperor of
Tolendra, would he?"
The knight looked at him helplessly.
"I think you should proceed, good merchant," the Tolnedran told Silk. "I know
that all Tol Honeth awaits your arrival breathlessly." Silk grinned at him and
bowed fioridly in his saddle. Then he gestured to the others and they all rode
slowly past the fuming Mimbrate knight. After they had passed, the legionnaires
closed ranks across the highway, effectively cutting off any pursuit.
"Good man there," Barak said. "I don't think much of Tolnedrans ordinarily, but
that one's different."
"Let's move right along," Mister Wolf said. "I'd rather not have those knights
doubling back on us after the Tolnedrans leave."
They pushed their horses into a gallop and rode on, leaving the knights behind,
arguing heatedly with the legion commander in the middle of the road.
They stayed that night at a thick-walled Tolnedran hostel, and for perhaps the
first time in his life Garion bathed without the insistence or even the
suggestion of his Aunt. Though he had not had the chance to become directly
involved in the fight in the clearing the night before, he felt somehow as if he
were spattered with blood or worse. He had not before realized how grotesquely
men could be mutilated in close fighting. Watching a living man disembowled or
brained had filled him with a kind of deep shame that the ultimate inner secrets
of the human body could be so grossly exposed. He felt unclean. He removed his
clothing in the chilly bathhouse and even, without thinking, the silver amulet
Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol had given him, and then he entered the steaming tub
where he scrubbed at his skin with a coarse brush and strong soap, much harder
than even the most meticulous obsession with personal cleanliness would have
required.
For the next several days they moved southward at a steady pace, stopping each
night at the evenly spaced Tolnedran hostels where the presence of the
hard-faced legionnaires was a continual reminder that all the might of Imperial
Tolnedra guaranteed the safety of travelers who sought refuge there.
On the sixth day after the fight in the forest, however, Lelldorin's horse
pulled up lame. Durnik and Hettar, under Aunt Pol's supervision, spent several
hours brewing poultices over a small fire by the roadside and applying steaming
compresses to the animal's leg while Wolf fumed at the delay. By the time the
horse was fit to continue, they all realized that there was no chance to reach
the next hostel before dark.
"Well, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said after they had remounted, "what now? Do we ride
on at night, or do we try to take shelter in the forest again?"
"I haven't decided," Wolf answered shortly.
"If I remember right, there's a village not far ahead," Lelldorin, now mounted
on an Algar horse, stated. "It's a poor place, but I think it has an inn - of
sorts."
"That sounds ominous," Silk said. "What exactly do you mean by 'of sorts'?"
"The Lord of this demesne is notoriously greedy," Lelldorin replied. "His taxes
are crushing, and his people have little left for themselves. The inn isn't
good."
"We'll have to chance it," Wolf decided, and led them off at a brisk trot. As
they approached the village, the heavy clouds began to clear off, and the sun
broke through wanly.
The village was even worse than Lelldorin's description had led them to believe.
A half dozen ragged beggars stood in the mud on the outskirts, their hands held
out imploringly and their voices shrill. The houses were nothing more than rude
hovels oozing smoke from the pitiful fires within. Scrawny pigs rooted in the
muddy streets, and the stench of the place was awful.
A funeral procession slogged through the mud toward the burial ground on the
other side of the village. The corpse, carried on a board, was wrapped in a
ragged brown blanket, and the richly robed and cowled priests of Chaldan, the
Arendish God, chanted an age-old hymn that had much to do with war and
vengeance, but little to do with comfort. The widow, a whimpering infant at her
breast, followed the body, her face blank and her eyes dead.
The inn smelled of stale beer and half-rotten food. A fire had destroyed one end
of the common room, charring and blackening the lowbeamed ceiling. The gaping
hole in the burned wall was curtained off with a sheet of rotting canvas. The
fire pit in the center of the room smoked, and the hard-faced innkeeper was
surly. For supper he offered only bowls of watery gruel - a mixture of barley
and turnips.
"Charming," Silk said sardonically, pushing away his untouched bowl. "I'm a bit
surprised at you, Lelldorin. Your passion for correcting wrongs seems to have
overlooked this place. Might I suggest that your next crusade include a visit to
the Lord of this demesne? His hanging seems long overdue."
"I hadn't realized it was so bad," Lelldorin replied in a subdued voice. He
looked around as if seeing certain things for the first time. A kind of sick
horror began to show itself in his transparent face.
Garion, his stomach churning, stood up. "I think I'll go outside," he declared.
"Not too far," Aunt Pol warned.
The air outside was at least somewhat cleaner, and Garion picked his way
carefully toward the edge of the village, trying to avoid the worst of the mud.
"Please, my Lord," a little girl with huge eyes begged, "have you a crust of
bread to spare?"
Garion looked at her helplessly. "I'm sorry." He fumbled through his clothes,
looking for something to give her, but the child began to cry and turned away.
In the stump-dotted field beyond the stinking streets, a ragged boy about
Garion's own age was playing a wooden flute as he watched a few scrubby cows.
The melody he played was heartbreakingly pure, drifting unnoticed among the
hovels squatting in the slanting rays of the pale sun. The boy saw him, but did
not break off his playing. Their eyes met with a kind of grave recognition, but
they did not speak.
At the edge of the forest beyond the field, a dark-robed and hooded man astride
a black horse came out of the trees and sat watching the village. There was
something ominous about the dark figure, and something vaguely familiar as well.
It seemed somehow to Garion that he should know who the rider was, but, though
his mind groped for a name, it tantalizingly eluded him. He looked at the figure
at the edge of the woods for a long time, noticing without even being aware of
it that though the horse and rider stood in the full light of the setting sun,
there was no shadow behind them. Deep in his mind something tried to shriek at
him, but, all bemused, he merely watched. He would not say anything to Aunt Pol
or the others about the figure at the edge of the woods because there was
nothing to say; as soon as he turned his back, he would forget.
The light began to fade, and, because he had begun to shiver, he turned to go
back to the inn with the aching song of the boy's flute soaring toward the sky
above him.
Chapter Six
DESPITE THE PROMISE Of the brief Sunset, the next day dawned cold and murky with
a chill drizzle that wreathed down among the trees and made the entire forest
sodden and gloomy. They left the inn early and soon entered a part of the wood
that seemed more darkly foreboding than even the ominous stretches through which
they had previously passed. The trees here were enormous, and many vast, gnarled
oaks lifted their bare limbs among the dark firs and spruces. The forest floor
was covered with a kind of gray moss that looked diseased and unwholesome.
Lelldorin had spoken little that morning, and Garion assumed that his friend was
still struggling with the problem of Nachak's scheme. The young Asturian rode
along, wrapped in his heavy green cloak, his reddish-gold hair damp and
dispirited-looking in the steady drizzle. Garion pulled in beside his friend,
and they rode silently for a while. "What's troubling you, Lelldorin?" he asked
finally.
"I think that all my life I've been blind, Garion," Lelldorin replied.
"Oh? In what way?" Garion said it carefully, hoping that his friend had finally
decided to tell Mister Wolf everything.
"I saw only Mimbre's oppression of Asturia. I never saw our own oppression of
our own people."
"I've been trying to tell you that," Garion pointed out. "What made you see it
finally?"
"That village where we stayed last night," Lelldorin explained. "I've never seen
so poor and mean a place - or people crushed into such hopeless misery. How can
they bear it?"
"Do they have any choice?"
"My father at least looks after the people on his land," the young man asserted
defensively. "No one goes hungry or without shelter - but those people are
treated worse than animals. I've always been proud of my station, but now it
makes me ashamed." Tears actually stood in his eyes.
Garion was not sure how to deal with his friend's sudden awakening. On the one
hand, he was glad that Lelldorin had finally seen what had always been obvious;
but on the other, he was more than a little afraid of what this newfound
perception might cause his mercurial companion to leap into.
"I'll renounce my rank," Lelldorin declared suddenly, as if he had been
listening to Garion's thoughts, "and when I return from this quest, I'll go
among the serfs and share their lives - their sorrows."
"What good will that do? How would your suffering in any way make theirs less?"
Lelldorin looked up sharply, a half dozen emotions chasing each other across his
open face. Finally he smiled, but there was a determination in his blue eyes.
"You're right, of course," he said. "You always are. It's amazing how you can
always see directly to the heart of a problem, Garion."
"Just what have you got in mind?" Garion asked a little apprehensively.
"I'll lead them in revolt. I'll sweep across Arendia with an army of serfs at my
back." His voice rang as his imagination fired with the idea.
Garion groaned. "Why is that always your answer to everything, Lelldorin?" he
demanded. "In the first place, the serfs don't have any weapons and they don't
know how to fight. No matter how hard you talk, you'd never get them to follow
you. In the second place, if they did, every nobleman in Arendia would join
ranks against you. They'd butcher your army; and afterward, things would be ten
times worse. In the third place, you'd just be starting another civil war; and
that's exactly what the Murgos want."
Lelldorin blinked several times as Garion's words sank in. His face gradually
grew mournful again. "I hadn't thought of that," he confessed.
"I didn't think you had. You're going to keep making these mistakes as long as
you keep carrying your brain in the same scabbard with your sword, Lelldorin."
Lelldorin hushed at that, and then he laughed ruefully. "That's a pointed way of
putting it, Garion," he said reproachfully.
"I'm sorry," Garion apologized quickly. "Maybe I should have said it another
way."
"No," Lelldorin told him. "I'm an Arend. I tend to miss things if they aren't
said directly."
"It's not that you're stupid, Lelldorin," Garion protested. "That's a mistake
everyone makes. Arends aren't stupid - they're just impulsive."
"All this was more than just impulsiveness," Lelldorin insisted sadly, gesturing
out at the damp moss lying under the trees.
"This what?" Garion asked, looking around.
"This is the last stretch of forest before we come out on the plains of central
Arendia," Lelldorin explained. "It's the natural boundary between Mimbre and
Asturia."
"The woods look the same as all the rest," Garion observed, looking around.
"Not really," Lelldorin said somberly. "This was the favorite ground for ambush.
The floor of this forest is carpeted with old bones. Look there." He pointed.
At first it seemed to Garion that what his friend indicated was merely a pair of
twisted sticks protruding from the moss with the twigs at their ends entangled
in a scrubby bush. Then, with revulsion, he realized that they were the greenish
bones of a human arm, the fingers clutched at the bush in a last convulsive
agony. Outraged, he demanded, "Why didn't they bury him?"
"It would take a thousand men a thousand years to gather all the bones that lie
here and commit them to earth," Lelldorin intoned morbidly. "Whole generations
of Arendia rest here - Mimbrate, Wacite, Asturian. All lie where they fell, and
the moss blankets their endless slumber."
Garion shuddered and pulled his eyes away from the mute appeal of that lone arm
rising from the sea of moss on the floor of the forest. The curious lumps and
hummocks of that moss suggested the horror which lay moldering beneath. As he
raised his eyes, he realized that the uneven surface extended as far as he could
see, "How long until we reach the plain?" he asked in a hushed voice.
"Two days, probably."
"Two days? And it's all like this?"
Lelldorin nodded.
"Why?" Garion's tone was harsher, more accusing than he'd intended.
"At first for pride - and honor," Lelldorin replied. "Later for grief and
revenge. Finally it was simply because we didn't know how to stop. As you said
before, sometimes we Arends aren't very bright."
"But always brave," Garion answered quickly.
"Oh yes," Lelldorin admitted. "Always brave. It's our national curse."
"Belgarath," Hettar said quietly from behind them, "the horses smell something."
Mister Wolf roused himself from the doze in which he usually rode. "What?"
"The horses," Hettar repeated. "Something out there's frightening them."
Wolf's eyes narrowed and then grew strangely blank. After a moment he drew in a
sharp breath with a muttered curse.
"Algroths," he swore.
"What's an Algroth?" Durnik asked.
"A non-human-somewhat distantly related to Trolls."
"I saw a Troll once," Barak said. "A big ugly thing with claws and fangs."
"Will they attack us?" Durnik asked.
"Almost certainly." Wolf's voice was tense. "Hettar, you're going to have to
keep the horses under control. We don't dare get separated."
"Where did they come from?" Lelldorin asked. "There aren't any monsters in this
forest."
"They come down out of the mountains of Ulgo sometimes when they get hungry,"
Wolf answered. "They don't leave survivors to report their presence."
"You'd better do something, father," Aunt Pol said. "They're all around us."
Lelldorin looked quickly around as if getting his bearings. "We're not far from
Elgon's tor," he offered. "We might be able to hold them off if we get there."
"Elgon's tor?" Barak said. He had already drawn his heavy sword.
"It's a high hillock covered with boulders," Lelldorin explained. "It's almost
like a fort. Elgon held it for a month against a Mimbrate army."
"Sounds promising," Silk said. "It would get us out of the trees at least." He
looked nervously around at the forest looming about them in the drizzling rain.
"Let's try for it," Wolf decided. "They haven't worked themselves up to the
point of attacking yet, and the rain's confusing their sense of smell."
A strange barking sound came from back in the forest.
"Is that them?" Garion asked, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears.
"They're calling to each other," Wolf told him. "Some of them have seen us.
Let's pick up the pace a bit, but don't start running until we see the tor."
They nudged their nervous horses into a trot and moved steadily along the muddy
road as it began to climb toward the top of a low ridge. "Half a league,"
Lelldorin said tensely. "Half a league and we should see the tor."
The horses were difficult to hold in, and their eyes rolled wildly at the
surrounding woods. Garion felt his heart pounding, and his mouth was suddenly
dry. It started to rain a bit harder. He caught a movement out of the corner of
his eye and looked quickly. A manlike figure was loping along parallel to the
road about a hundred paces back in the forest. It ran half crouched, its hands
touching the ground. It seemed to be a loathsome gray color.
"Over there!" Garion cried.
"I saw him," Barak growled. "Not quite as big as a Troll."
Silk grimaced. "Big enough."
"If they attack, be careful of their claws," Wolf warned. "They're venomous."
"That's exciting," Silk said.
"There's the tor," Aunt Pol announced quite calmly.
"Let's run!" Wolf barked.
The frightened horses, suddenly released, leaped forward and fled up the road,
their hoofs churning. An enraged howl came from the woods behind them, and the
barking sound grew louder all around them.
"We're going to make it!" Durnik shouted in encouragement. But suddenly a
half-dozen snarling Algroths were in the road in front of them, their arms
spread wide and their mouths gaping hideously. They were huge, with apelike arms
and claws instead of fingers. Their faces were goatish, surmounted by short,
sharp-pointed horns, and they had long, yellow fangs. Their gray skin was scaly,
reptilian.
The horses screamed and reared, trying to bolt. Garion clung to his saddle with
one hand and fought the reins with the other.
Barak beat at his horse's rump with the flat of his sword and kicked savagely at
the animal's flanks until the horse, finally more afraid of him than the
Algroths, charged. With two great sweeps, one to either side, Barak killed two
of the beasts as he plunged through. A third, claws outstretched, tried to leap
on his back, but stiffened and collapsed facedown in the mud with one of
Lelldorin's arrows between its shoulders. Barak wheeled his horse and chopped at
the three remaining creatures. "Let's go!" he bellowed.
Garion heard Lelldorin gasp and turned quickly. With sick horror he saw that a
lone Algroth had crept out of the woods beside the road and was clawing at his
friend, trying to hook him out of the saddle. Weakly, Lelldorin beat at the goat
face with his bow. Garion desperately drew his sword, but Hettar, coming from
behind, was already there. His curved sabre ran through the beast's body, and
the Algroth shrieked and fell writhing to the ground beneath the pounding hoofs
of the pack animals.
The horses, running now in sheer panic, scrambled toward the slope of the
boulder-strewn tor. Garion glanced back over his shoulder and saw Lelldorin
swaying dangerously in his saddle, his hand pressed to his bleeding side. Garion
pulled in savagely on his reins and turned his horse.
"Save yourself, Garion!" Lelldorin shouted, his face deadly pale.
"No!" Garion sheathed his sword, pulled in beside his friend and took his arm,
steadying him in the saddle. Together they galloped toward the tor with Garion
straining to hold the injured young man.
The tor was a great jumble of earth and stone thrusting up above the tallest
trees around it. Their horses scrambled and clattered up the side among the wet
boulders. When they reached the small flat area at the top of the tor where the
pack animals huddled together, trembling in the rain, Garion slid out of his
saddle in time to catch Lelldorin, who toppled slowly to one side.
"Over here," Aunt Pol called sharply. She was pulling her small bundle of herbs
and bandages out of one of the packs. "Durnik, I'll need a fire - at once."
Durnik looked around helplessly at the few scraps of wood lying in the rain at
the top of the tor. "I'll try," he said doubtfully.
Lelldorin's breathing was shallow and very fast. His face was still a deadly
white, and his legs would not hold him. Garion held him up, a sick fear in the
pit of his stomach. Hettar took the wounded man's other arm, and between them
they half carried him to where Aunt Pol knelt, opening her bundle.
"I have to get the poison out immediately," she told them. "Garion, give me your
knife."
Garion drew his dagger and handed it to her. Swiftly she ripped open Lelldorin's
brown tunic along his side, revealing the savage wounds the Algroth's claws had
made.
"This will hurt," she said. "Hold him."
Garion and Hettar took hold of Lelldorin's arms and legs, holding him down.
Aunt Pol took a deep breath and then deftly sliced open each of the puffy
wounds. Blood spurted and Lelldorin screamed once. Then he fainted.
"Hettar!" Barak shouted from atop a boulder near the edge of the slope. "We need
you!"
"Go!" Aunt Pol told the hawk-faced Algar. "We can handle this now. Garion, you
stay here." She was crushing some dried leaves and sprinkling the fragments into
the bleeding wounds. "The fire, Durnik," she ordered.
"It won't start, Mistress Pol," Durnik replied helplessly. "It's too wet."
She looked quickly at the pile of sodden wood the smith had gathered.
Her eyes narrowed, and she made a quick gesture. Garion's ears rang strangely
and there was a sudden hissing. A cloud of steam burst from the wood, and then
crackling flames curled up from the sticks. Durnik jumped back, startled.
"The small pot, Garion," Aunt Pol instructed, "and water. Quickly." She pulled
ofl' her blue cloak and covered Lelldorin with it.
Silk, Barak and Hettar stood at the edge of the slope, heaving large rocks over
the edge. Garion could hear the clatter and clash of the rocks striking the
boulders below and the barking of the Algroths, punctuated by an occasional howl
of pain.
He cradled his friend's head in his lap, terribly afraid. "Is he going to be all
right?" he appealed to Aunt Pol.
"It's too early to tell," she answered. "Don't bother me with questions just
now."
"They're running!" Barak shouted.
"They're still hungry," Wolf replied grimly. "They'll be back."
From far off in the forest there came the sound of a brassy horn.
"What's that?" Silk asked, still puffing from the effort of heaving the heavy
stones over the edge.
"Someone I've been expecting," Wolf answered with a strange smile. He raised his
hands to his lips and whistled shrilly.
"I can manage now, Garion," Aunt Pol said, mashing a thick paste into a steaming
pad of wet linen bandage. "You and Durnik go help the others."
Reluctantly Garion lowered Lelldorin's head to the wet turf and ran over to
where Wolf stood. The slope below was littered with dead and dying Algroths,
crushed by the rocks Barak and the others had hurled down on them.
"They're going to try again," Barak said, hefting another rock. "Can they get at
us from behind?"
Silk shook his head. "No. I checked. The back of the hill's a sheer face."
The Algroths came out of the woods below, barking and snarling as they loped
forward with their half crouched gait. The first of them had already crossed the
road when the horn blew again, very close this time.
And then a huge horse bearing a man in full armor burst out of the trees and
thundered down upon the attacking creatures. The armored man crouched over his
lance and plunged directly into the midst of the startled Algroths. The great
horse screamed as he charged, and his ironshod hoofs churned up big clots of
mud. The lance crashed through the chest of one of the largest Algroths and
splintered from the force of the blow. The splintered end took another full in
the face. The knight discarded the shattered lance and drew his broadsword with
a single sweep of his arm. With wide swings to the right and left he chopped his
way through the pack, his warhorse trampling the living and the dead alike into
the mud of the road. At the end of his charge he whirled and plunged back again,
once more opening a path with his sword. The Algroths turned and fled howling
into the woods.
"Mandorallen!" Wolf shouted. "Up here!"
The armored knight raised his blood-spattered visor and looked up the hill.
"Permit me to disperse this rabble first, my ancient friend," he answered gaily,
clanged down his visor, and plunged into the rainy woods after the Algroths.
"Hettar!" Barak shouted, already moving.
Hettar nodded tersely, and the two of them ran to their horses. They swung into
their saddles and plunged down the wet slope to the aid of the stranger.
"Your friend shows a remarkable lack of good sense," Silk observed to Mister
Wolf, wiping the rain from his face. "Those things will turn on him any second
now."
"It probably hasn't occurred to him that he's in any danger," Wolf replied.
"He's a Mimbrate, and they tend to think they're invincible." The fight in the
woods seemed to last for a long time. There were shouts and ringing blows and
shrieks of terror from the Algroths. Then Hettar, Barak, and the strange knight
rode out of the trees and trotted up the tor. At the top, the armored man
clanged down from his horse. "Well met, my old friend," he boomed to Mister
Wolf. "Thy friends below were most frolicsome." His armor gleamed wetly in the
rain.
"I'm glad we found something to entertain you," Wolf said dryly.
"I can still hear them," Durnik reported. "I think they're still running."
"Their cowardice hath deprived us of an amusing afternoon," the knight observed,
regretfully sheathing his sword and removing his helmet.
"We must all make sacrifices," Silk drawled.
The knight sighed. "All too true. Thou art a man of philosophy, I see." He shook
the water out of the white plume on his helmet.
"Forgive me," Mister Wolf said. "This is Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor. He'll
be going with us. Mandorallen, this is Prince Kheldar of Drasnia and Barak, Earl
of Trellheim and cousin to King Anheg of Cherek. Over there is Hettar, son of
Cho-Hag, chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The practical one is Goodman
Durnik of Sendaria, and this boy is Garion, my grandson - several times
removed."
Mandorallen bowed deeply to each of them. "I greet you, comrades all," he
declaimed in his booming voice. "Our adventure hath seen a fortuitous beginning.
And pray tell, who is this lady, whose beauty doth bedazzle mine eye?"
"A pretty speech, Sir Knight," Aunt Pol replied with a rich laugh, her hand
going almost unconsciously to her damp hair. "I'm going to like this one,
father."
"The legendary Lady Polgara?" Mandorallen asked. "My life hath now seen its
crown." His courtly bow was somewhat marred by the creaking of his armor.
"Our injured friend is Lelldorin, son of the Baron of Wildantor," Wolf
continued. "You may have heard of him."
Mandorallen's face darkened slightly. "Indeed. Rumor, which sometimes loth run
before us like a barking dog, hath suggested that Lelldorin of Wildantor hath
raised on occasion foul rebellion against the crown."
"That's of no matter now," Wolf stressed. "The business which has brought us
together is much more serious than all that. You'll have to put it aside."
"It shall be as you say, noble Belgarath," Mandorallen declared immediately,
though his eyes still lingered on the unconscious Lelldorin.
"Grandfather!" Garion called, pointing at a mounted figure that had suddenly
appeared on the side of the stony hilltop. The figure was robed in black and sat
a black horse. He pushed back his hood to reveal a polished steel mask cast in
the form of a face that was at once beautiful and strangely repelling. A voice
deep in Garion's mind told him that there was something important about the
strange rider - something he should remember - but whatever it was eluded him.
"Abandon this quest, Belgarath." The voice was hollow behind the mask.
"You know me better than that, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said calmly, quite
obviously recognizing the rider. "Was this childishness with the Algroths your
idea?"
"And you should know me better than that," the figure retorted derisively. "When
I come against you, you can expect things to be a bit more serious. For now,
there are enough underlings about to delay you. That's all we really need. Once
Zedar has carried Cthrag Yaska to my Master, you can try your power against the
might and will of Torak, if you'd like."
"Are you running errands for Zedar, then?" Wolf asked.
"I run no man's errands," the figure replied with heavy contempt. The rider
seemed solid, as real as any of them standing on the hilltop, but Garion could
see the filmy drizzle striking the rocks directly beneath horse and man.
Whatever the figure was, the rain was falling right through it.
"Why are you here then, Chamdar?" Wolf demanded.
"Let's call it curiosity, Belgarath. I wanted to see for myself how you'd
managed to translate the Prophecy into everyday terms." The figure looked around
at the others on the hilltop. "Clever," it said with a certain grudging
admiration. "Where did you find them all?"
"I didn't have to find them, Chamdar," Wolf answered. "They've been there all
along. If any part of the Prophecy is valid, then it all has to be valid,
doesn't it? There's no contrivance involved at all, Each one has come down to me
through more generations than you can imagine."
The figure seemed to hiss with a sharp intake of its breath. "It isn't complete
yet, old man."
"It will be, Chamdar," Wolf replied confidently. "I've already seen to that."
"Which is the one who will live twice?" the figure asked suddenly. Wolf smiled
coldly, but did not answer.
"Hail, my Queen," the figure said mockingly then to Aunt Pol.
"Grolim courtesy always leaves me quite cold," she returned with a frosty look.
"I'm not your queen, Chamdar."
"You will be, Polgara. My Master said that you are to become his wife when he
comes into his kingdom. You'll be queen of all the world."
"That puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, doesn't it, Chamdar? If I'm to become
your queen, you can't really cross me, can you?"
"I can work around you, Polgara, and once you've become the bride of Torak, his
will becomes your will. I'm sure you won't hold any old grudges at that point."
"I think we've had about enough of this, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said. "Your
conversation's beginning to bore me. You can have your shadow back now." He
waved his hand negligently as if brushing away a troublesome fly. "Go," he
commanded.
Once again Garion felt that strange surge and that hollow roaring in his mind.
The horseman vanished.
"You didn't destroy him, did you?" Silk gasped in a shocked voice.
"No," Mister Wolf told him. "It was all just an illusion. It's a childish trick
the Grolims find impressive. A shadow can be projected over quite some distance
if you want to take the trouble. All I did was send his shadow back to him." He
grinned suddenly with a sly twist to his lips. "Of course I selected a somewhat
indirect route. It may take a few days to make the trip. It won't actually hurt
him, but it's going to make him a bit uncomfortable - and extremely
conspicuous."
"A most unseemly specter," Mandorallen observed. "Who was this rude shade?"
"It was Chamdar," Aunt Pol said, returning her attention to the injured
Lelldorin, "one of the chief priests of the Grolims. Father and I have met him
before."
"I think we'd better get off this hilltop," Wolf stated. "How soon will
Lelldorin be able to ride?"
"A week at least," Aunt Pol replied, "if then."
"That's out of the question. We can't stay here."
"He can't ride," she told him firmly.
"Couldn't we make a litter of some sort?" Durnik suggested. "I'm sure I can make
something we can sling between two horses so we can move him without hurting
him."
"Well, Pol?" Wolf asked.
"I suppose it will be all right," she said a little dubiously.
"Let's do it then. We're much too exposed up here, and we've got to move on."
Durnik nodded and went to the packs for rope to use in building the litter.
Chapter Seven
SIR MANDORALLEN, BARON OF VO MANDOR, was a man of slightly more than medium
height. His hair was black and curly, his eyes were deep blue, and he had a
resonant voice in which he expressed firmly held opinions. Garion did not like
him. The knight's towering self confidence, an egotism so pure that there was a
kind of innocence about it, seemed to confirm the worst of Lelldorin's dark
pronouncements about Mimbrates; and Mandorallen's extravagant courtesy to Aunt
Pol struck Garion as beyond the bounds of proper civility. To make matters even
worse, Aunt Pol seemed quite willing to accept the knight's flatteries at face
value.
As they rode through the continuing drizzle along the Great West Road, Garion
noted with some satisfaction that his companions appeared to share his opinion.
Barak's expression spoke louder than words; Silk's eyebrows lifted sardonically
at each of the knight's pronouncements; and Durnik scowled.
Garion, however, had little time to sort out his feelings about the Mimbrate. He
rode close beside the litter upon which Lelldorin tossed painfully as the
Algroth Polson seared in his wounds. He offered his friend what comfort he could
and exchanged frequent worried looks with Aunt Pol, who rode nearby. During the
worst of Lelldorin's paroxysms, Garion helplessly held the young man's hand,
unable to think of anything else to do to ease his pain.
"Bear thine infirmity with fortitude, good youth," Mandorallen cheerfully
advised the injured Asturian after a particularly bad bout that left Lelldorin
gasping and moaning. "This discomfort of throe is but an illusion. Thy mind can
put it to rest if thou wouldst have it so."
"That's exactly the kind of comfort I'd expect from a Mimbrate," Lelldorin
retorted from between clenched teeth. "I think I'd rather you didn't ride so
close. Your opinions smell almost as bad as your armor."
Mandorallen's face flushed slightly. "The venom which loth rage through the body
of our injured friend hath, it would seem, bereft him of civility as well as
sense," he observed coldly.
Lelldorin half raised himself in the litter as if to respond hotly, but the
sudden movement seemed to aggravate his injury, and he lapsed into
unconsciousness.
"His wounds are grave," Mandorallen stated. "Thy poultice, Lady Polgara, may not
suffice to save his life."
"He needs rest," she told him. "Try not to agitate him so much."
"I will place myself beyond the reach of his eye," Mandorallen replied. "Through
no fault of mine own, my visage is hateful to him and doth stir him to
unhealthful choler." He moved his warhorse ahead at a canter until he was some
distance in front of the rest of them.
"Do they all talk like that?" Garion asked with a certain rancor. "Thee's and
thou's and cloth's?"
"Mimbrates tend to be very formal," Aunt Pol explained. "You'll get used to it."
"I think it sounds stupid," Garion muttered darkly, glaring after the knight.
"An example of good manners won't hurt you all that much, Garion."
They rode on through the dripping forest as evening settled among the trees.
"Aunt Pol?" Garion asked finally.
"Yes, dear?"
"What was that Grolim talking about when he said that about you and Torak?"
"It's something Torak said once when he was raving. The Grolims took it
seriously, that's all." She pulled her blue cloak tighter about her.
"Doesn't it worry you?"
"Not particularly."
"What was that Prophecy the Grolim was talking about? I didn't understand any of
that." The word "Prophecy" for some reason stirred something very deep in him.
"The Mrin Codex," she answered. "It's a very old version, and the writing's
almost illegible. It mentions companions - the bear, the rat, and the man who
will live twice. It's the only version that says anything about them. Nobody
knows for certain that it really means anything."
"Grandfather thinks it does, doesn't he?"
"Your grandfather has a number of curious notions. Old things impress him probably because he's so old himself."
Garion was going to ask her about this Prophecy that seemed to exist in more
than one version, but Lelldorin moaned then and they both immediately turned to
him.
They arrived shortly thereafter at a Tolnedran hostel with thick, whitewashed
walls and a red tile roof. Aunt Pol saw to it that Lelldorin was placed in a
warm room, and she spent the night sitting by his bed caring for him. Garion
padded worriedly down the dark hallway in his stocking feet a half-dozen times
before morning to check on his friend, but there seemed to be no change.
By daybreak the rain had let up. They started out in the grayish dawn with
Mandorallen still riding some distance ahead until they reached at last the edge
of the dark forest and saw before them the vast, open expanse of the Arendish
central plain, dun-colored and sere in the last few weeks of winter. The knight
stopped there and waited for them to join him, his face somber.
"What's the trouble?" Silk asked him.
Mandorallen pointed gravely at a column of black smoke rising from a few miles
out on the plain.
"What is it?" Silk inquired, his rat face puzzled.
"Smoke in Arendia can mean but one thing," the knight replied, pulling on his
plumed helmet. "Abide here, dear friends. I will investigate, but I fear the
worst." He set his spurs to the flanks of his charger and leaped forward at a
thunderous gallop.
"Wait!" Barak roared after him, but Mandorallen rode on obliviously. "That
idiot," the big Cherek fumed. "I'd better go with him in case there's trouble."
"It isn't necessary," Lelldorin advised weakly from his litter. "Not even an
army would dare to interfere with him."
"I thought you didn't like him," Barak said, a little surprised.
"I don't," Lelldorin admitted, "but he's the most feared man in Arendia. Even in
Asturia we've heard of Sir Mandorallen. No sane man would stand in his way."
They drew back into the shelter of the forest and waited for the knight to come
back. When he returned, his face was angry. "It is as I feared," he announced.
"A war doth rage in our path - a senseless war, since the two barons involved
are kinsmen and the best of friends."
"Can we go around it?" Silk asked.
"Nay, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen replied. "Their conflict is so widespread
that we would be waylaid ere we had gone three leagues. I must, it would appear,
buy us passage."
"Do you think they'll take money to let us pass?" Durnik asked dubiously.
"In Arendia there is another way to make such purchase, Goodman," Mandorallen
responded. "May I prevail upon thee to obtain six or eight stout poles perhaps
twenty feet in length and about as thick as my wrist at the butt?"
"Of course." Durnik took up his axe.
"What have you got in mind?" Barak rumbled.
"I will challenge them," Mandorallen announced calmly, "one or all. No true
knight could refuse me without being called craven. Wilt thou be my second and
deliver my challenge, my Lord?"
"What if you lose?" Silk suggested.
"Lose?" Mandorallen seemed shocked. "I? Lose?"
"Let it pass," Silk said.
By the time Durnik had returned with the poles, Mandorallen had finished
tightening various straps beneath his armor. Taking one of the poles, he vaulted
into his saddle and started at a rolling trot toward the column of smoke, with
Barak at his side.
"Is this really necessary, father?" Aunt Pol asked.
"We have to get through, Pol," Mister Wolf replied. "Don't worry. Mandorallen
knows what he's doing."
After a couple of miles they reached the top of a hill and looked down at the
battle below. Two grim, black castles faced each other across a broad valley,
and several villages dotted the plain on either side of the road. The nearest
village was in flames, with a great pillar of greasy smoke rising from it to the
lead-gray sky overhead, and serfs armed with scythes and pitchforks were
attacking each other with a sort of mindless ferocity on the road itself. Some
distance off, pikemen were gathering for a charge, and the air was thick with
arrows. On two opposing hills parties of armored knights with bright-colored
pennons on their lances watched the battle. Great siege engines lofted boulders
into the air to crash down on the struggling men, killing, so far as Garion
could tell, friend and foe indiscriminately. The valley was littered with the
dead and the dying.
"Stupid," Wolf muttered darkly.
"No one I know of has ever accused Arends of brilliance," Silk observed.
Mandorallen set his horn to his lips and blew a shattering blast. The battle
paused as the soldiers and serfs all stopped to stare up at him. He sounded his
horn again, and then again, each brassy note a challenge it itself. As the two
opposing bodies of knights galloped through the kneehigh, winter-yellowed grass
to investigate, Mandorallen turned to Barak. "If it please thee, my Lord," he
requested politely, "deliver my challenge as soon as they approach us."
Barak shrugged. "It's your skin," he noted. He eyed the advancing knights and
then lifted his voice in a great roar. "Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor,
desires entertainment," he declaimed. "It would amuse him if each of your
parties would select a champion to joust with him. If, however, you are all such
cowardly dogs that you have no stomach for such a contest, cease this brawling
and stand aside so that your betters may pass."
"Splendidly spoken, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen said with admiration.
"I've always had a way with words," Barak replied modestly. The two parties of
knights warily rode closer.
"For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen chided them. "Ye will gain no honor in this
sorry war. Sir Derigen, what hath caused this contention?"
"An insult, Sir Mandorallen," the noble replied. He was a large man, and his
polished steel helmet had a golden circlet riveted above the visor. "An insult
so vile that it may not go unpunished."
"It was I who was insulted," a noble on the other side contended hotly.
"What was the nature of this insult, Sir Oltorain?" Mandorallen inquired.
Both men looked away uneasily, and neither spoke.
"Ye have gone to war over an insult which cannot even be recalled?" Mandorallen
said incredulously. "I had thought, my Lords, that ye were serious men, but I
now perceive my error."
"Don't the nobles of Arendia have anything better to do?" Barak asked in a voice
heavy with contempt.
"Of Sir Mandorallen the bastard we have all heard," a swarthy knight in black
enamelled armor sneered, "but who is this red-bearded ape who so maligns his
betters?"
"You're going to take that?" Barak asked Mandorallen.
"It's more or less true," Mandorallen admitted with a pained look, "since there
was some temporary irregularity about my birth which still raises questions
about my legitimacy. This knight is Sir Haldorin, my third cousin-twice removed.
Since it's considered unseemly in Arendia to spill the blood of kinsmen, he thus
cheaply gains reputation for boldness by casting the matter in my teeth."
"Stupid custom," Barak grunted. "In Cherek kinsmen kill each other with more
enthusiasm than they kill strangers."
"Alas." Mandorallen sighed. "This is not Cherek."
"Would you be offended if I dealt with this?" Barak asked politely.
"Not at all."
Barak moved closer to the swarthy knight. "I am Barak, Earl of Trellheim," he
announced in a loud voice, "kinsman to King Anheg of Cherek, and I see that
certain nobles in Arendia have even fewer manners than they have brains."
"The Lords of Arendia are not impressed by the self bestowed titles of the
pig-sty kingdoms of the north," Sir Haldorin retorted coldly.
"I find your words offensive, friend," Barak said ominously.
"And I find thy ape face and scraggly beard amusing," Sir Haldorin replied.
Barak did not even bother to draw his sword. He swung his huge arm in a wide
circle and crashed his fist with stunning force against the side of the swarthy
knight's helmet. Sir Haldorin's eyes glazed as he was swept from his saddle, and
he made a vast clatter when he struck the ground.
"Would anyone else like to comment about my beard?" Barak demanded.
"Gently, my Lord," Mandorallen advised. He glanced down with a certain
satisfaction at the unconscious form of his senseless kinsman twitching in the
tall grass.
"Will we docilely accept this attack on our brave companion?" one of the knights
in Baron Derigen's party demanded in a harshly accented voice. "Kill them all!"
He reached for his sword.
"In the instant thy sword leaves its sheath thou art a dead man, Sir Knight,"
Mandorallen coolly advised him.
The knight's hand froze on his sword hilt.
"For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen continued accusingly. "Surely ye know that by
courtesy and common usage my challenge, until it is answered, guarantees my
safety and that of my companions. Choose your champions or withdraw. I tire of
all this and presently will become irritable."
The two parties of knights pulled back some distance to confer, and several
men-at-arms came to the hilltop to pick up Sir Haldorin.
"That one who was going to draw his sword was a Murgo," Garion said quietly.
"I noticed that," Hettar murmured, his dark eyes glittering.
"They're coming back," Durnik warned.
"I will joust with thee, Sir Mandorallen," Baron Derigen announced as he
approached. "I doubt not that thy reputation is well-deserved, but I also have
taken the prize in no small number of tourneys. I would be honored to try a
lance with thee."
"And I too will try my skill against throe, Sir Knight," Baron Oltorain
declared. "My arm is also feared in some parts of Arendia."
"Very well," Mandorallen replied. "Let us seek level ground and proceed. The day
wears on, and my companions and I have business to the south."
They all rode down the hill to the field below where the two groups of knights
drew up on either side of a course which had been quickly trampled out in the
high, yellow grass. Derigen galloped to the far end, turned and sat waiting, his
blunted lance resting in his stirrup.
"Thy courage becomes thee, my Lord," Mandorallen called, taking up one of the
poles Durnik had cut. "I shall try not to injure thee too greatly. Art thou
prepared to meet my charge?"
"I am," the baron replied, lowering his visor.
Mandorallen clapped down his visor, lowered his lance, and set his spurs to his
warhorse.
"It's probably inappropriate under the circumstances," Silk murmured, "but I
can't help wishing that our overbearing friend could suffer some humiliating
defeat."
Mister Wolf gave him a withering look. "Forget it!"
"Is he that good?" Silk asked wistfully.
"Watch," Wolf told him.
The two knights met in the center of the course with a resounding crash, and
their lances both shattered at the stunning impact, littering the trampled grass
with splinters. They thundered past each other, turned and rode back, each to
his original starting place. Derigen, Garion noticed, swayed somewhat in the
saddle as he rode.
The knights charged again, and their fresh lances also shattered. "I should have
cut more poles," Durnik said thoughtfully.
But Baron Derigen swayed even more as he rode back this time, and on the third
charge his faltering lance glanced off Mandorallen's shield. Mandorallen's
lance, however, struck true, and the baron was hurled from his saddle by the
force of their meeting.
Mandorallen reined in his charger and looked down at him. "Art thou able to
continue, my Lord?" he asked politely.
Derigen staggered to his feet. "I do not yield," he gasped, drawing his sword.
"Splendid," Mandorallen replied. "I feared that I might have done thee harm." He
slid out of his saddle, drew his sword and swung directly at Derigen's head. The
blow glanced off the baron's hastily raised shield, and Mandorallen swung again
without pause. Derigen managed one or two feeble swings before Mandorallen's
broadsword caught him full on the side of the helmet. He spun once and collapsed
facedown on the earth.
"My Lord?" Mandorallen inquired solicitously. He reached down, rolled over his
fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron's helmet. "Art thou
unwell, my Lord?" he asked. "Dost thou wish to continue?"
Derigen did not reply. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his eyes were rolled
back in his head. His face was blue, and the right side of his body quivered
spasmodically.
"Since this brave knight is unable to speak for himself," Mandorallen announced,
"I declare him vanquished." He looked around, his broadsword still in his hand.
"Would any here gainsay my words?"
There was a vast silence.
"Will some few then remove him from the field?" Mandorallen suggested. "His
injuries do not appear grave. A few months in bed should make him whole again."
He turned to Baron Oltorain, whose face had grown visibly pale. "Well, my Lord,"
he said cheerfully, "shall we proceed? My companions and I are impatient to
continue our journey."
Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg as
he fell.
"Ill luck, my Lord," Mandorallen observed, approaching on foot with drawn sword.
"Dost thou yield?"
"I cannot stand," Oltorain said from between clenched teeth. "I have no choice
but to yield."
"And I and my companions may continue our journey?"
"Ye may freely depart," the man on the ground replied painfully.
"Not just yet," a harsh voice interrupted. The armored Murgo pushed his horse
through the crowd of other mounted knights until he was directly in front of
Mandorallen.
"I thought he might decide to interfere," Aunt Pol said quietly. She dismounted
and stepped out onto the hoof churned course. "Move out of the way,
Mandorallen," she told the knight.
"Nay, my Lady," Mandorallen protested.
Wolf barked sharply. "Move, Mandorallen!"
Mandorallen looked startled and stepped aside.
"Well, Grolim?" Aunt Pol challenged, pushing back her hood.
The mounted man's eyes widened as he saw the white lock in her hair, and then he
raised his hand almost despairingly, muttering rapidly under his breath.
Once again Garion felt that strange surge, and the hollow roaring filled his
mind.
For an instant Aunt Pol's figure seemed surrounded by a kind of greenish light.
She waved her hand indifferently, and the light disappeared. "You must be out of
practice," she told him. "Would you like to try again?"
The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further. Maneuvering his
horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had closed on him. With both
hands he raised his axe and smashed it down directly on top of the Grolim's
helmet.
"Durnikl" Aunt Pol shouted. "Get away!"
But the smith, his face set grimly, swung again, and the Grolim slid senseless
from his saddle with a crash.
"You fool!" Aunt Pol raged. "What do you think you're doing?"
"He was attacking you, Mistress Pol," Durnik explained, his eyes still hot.
"Get down off that horse."
He slid down.
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" she demanded. "He could have
killed you."
"I will protect you, Mistress Pol," Durnik replied stubbornly. "I'm not a
warrior or a magician, but I won't let anybody try to hurt you."
Her eyes widened in surprise for an instant, then narrowed, then softened.
Garion, who had known her from childhood, recognized her rapid changes of
emotion. Without warning she suddenly embraced the startled Durnik. "You great,
clumsy, dear fool," she said. "Never do that again - never! You almost made my
heart stop."
Garion looked away with a strange lump in his throat and saw the brief, sly
smile that flickered across Mister Wolf's face.
A peculiar change had come over the knights lining the sides of the course.
Several of them were looking around with the amazed expressions of men who had
just been roused from some terrible dream. Others seemed suddenly lost in
thought. Sir Oltorain struggled to rise.
"Nay, my Lord," Mandorallen told him, pressing him gently back down. "Thou wilt
do thyself injury."
"What have we done?" the baron groaned, his face anguished.
Mister Wolf dismounted and knelt beside the injured man.
"It wasn't your fault," he informed the baron. "Your war was the Murgo's doing.
He twisted your minds and set you on each other."
"Sorcery?" Oltorain gasped, his face growing pale.
Wolf nodded. "He's not really a Murgo, but a Grolim priest."
"And the spell is now broken?"
Wolf nodded again, glancing at the unconscious Grolim.
"Chain the Murgo," the baron ordered the assembled knights. He looked back at
Wolf. "We have ways of dealing with sorcerers," he said grimly. "We will use the
occasion to celebrate the end of our unnatural war. This Grolim sorcerer hath
cast his last enchantment."
"Good," Wolf replied with a bleak smile.
"Sir Mandorallen," Baron Oltorain said, wincing as he shifted his broken leg,
"in what way may we repay thee and thy companions for bringing us to our
senses?"
"That peace hath been restored is reward enough," Mandorallen replied somewhat
pompously, "for, as all the world knows, I am the most peace-loving man in the
kingdom." He glanced once at Lelldorin lying nearby on the ground in his litter,
and a thought seemed to occur to him. "I would, however, ask a boon of thee. We
have in our company a brave Asturian youth of noble family who hath suffered
grievous injury. We would leave him, if we might, in thy care."
"His presence shall honor me, Sir Mandorallen," Oltorain assented immediately.
"The women of my household will care for him most tenderly." He spoke briefly to
one of his retainers, and the man mounted and rode quickly toward one of the
nearby castles.
"You're not going to leave me behind," Lelldorin protested weakly. "I'll be able
to ride in a day or so." He began to cough rackingly.
"I think not," Mandorallen disagreed with a cool expression. "The results of thy
wounding have not yet run their natural course."
"I won't stay with Mimbrates," Lelldorin insisted. "I'd rather take my chances
on the road."
"Young Lelldorin," Mandorallen replied bluntly, even harshly, "I know thy
distaste for the men of Mimbre. Thy wound, however, will soon begin to abscess
and then suppurate, and raging fever and delirium will aflict thee, making thy
presence a burden upon us. We have not the time to care for thee, and thy sore
need would delay us in our quest."
Garion gasped at the brutal directness of the knight's words. He glared at
Mandorallen with something very close to hatred.
Lelldorin's face meanwhile had gone white. "Thank you for pointing that out to
me, Sir Mandorallen," he said stiffly. "I should have considered it myself. If
you'll help me to my horse, I'll leave immediately."
"You'll stay right where you are," Aunt Pol told him flatly.
Baron Oltorain's retainer returned with a group of household servants and a
blonde girl of about seventeen wearing a rose-colored gown of stiff brocade and
a velvet cloak of teal.
"My younger sister, Lady Ariana," Oltorain introduced her. "She's a spirited
girl, and though she is young she is already well-versed in the care of the
sick."
"I won't trouble her for long, my Lord," Lelldorin declared. "I'll be returning
to Asturia within a week."
Lady Ariana laid a professional hand to his forehead. "Nay, good youth," she
disagreed. "Thy visit, I think, will be protracted."
"I'll leave within the week," Lelldorin repeated stubbornly.
She shrugged. "As it please thee. I expect that my brother will be able to spare
some few servants to follow after thee to provide thee that decent burial which,
if I misjudge not, thou wilt require before thou hast gone ten leagues."
Lelldorin blinked.
Aunt Pol took Lady Ariana to one side and spoke with her at some length, giving
her a small packet of herbs and certain instructions. Lelldorin motioned to
Garion, and Garion went to him immediately and knelt beside the litter.
"So it ends," the young man murmured. "I wish I could go on with you."
"You'll be well in no time at all," Garion assured him, knowing that it wasn't
true. "Maybe you can catch up with us later."
Lelldorin shook his head. "No," he disagreed, "I'm afraid not." He began to
cough again, the spasms seeming to tear at his lungs. "We don't have much time,
my friend," he gasped weakly, "so listen carefully."
Garion, near tears, took his friend's hand.
"You remember what we were talking about that morning after we left my uncle's
house?"
Garion nodded.
"You said that I was the one who'd have to decide if we were to break our pledge
to Torasin and the others to keep silent."
"I remember," Garion told him.
"All right," Lelldorin said. "I've decided. I release you from your pledge. Do
what you have to do."
"It would be better if you told my grandfather about it yourself, Lelldorin,"
Garion protested.
"I can't, Garion," Lelldorin groaned. "The words would stick in my throat. I'm
sorry, but it's the way I am. I know that Nachak's only using us, but I gave the
others my word. I'm an Arend, Garion. I'll keep my word even though I know it's
wrong, so it's up to you. You're going to have to keep Nachak from destroying my
country. I want you to go straight to the king himself."
"To the king? He'd never believe me."
"Make him believe you. Tell him everything."
Garion shook his head firmly. "I won't tell him your name," he declared, "or
Torasin's. You know what he'd do to you if I did."
"We don't matter," Lelldorin insisted, coughing again.
"I'll tell him about Nachak," Garion said stubbornly, "but not about you. Where
do I tell him to find the Murgo?"
"He'll know," Lelldorin replied, his voice very weak now. "Nachak's the
ambassador to the court at Vo Mimbre. He's the personal representative of Taur
Urggs, King of the Murgos."
Garion was stunned at the implications of that.
"He's got all the gold from the bottomless mines of Cthol Murgos at his
command," Lelldorin continued. "The plot he gave my friends and me could be just
one of a dozen or more all aimed at destroying Arendia. You've got to stop him,
Garion. Promise me." The pale young man's eyes were feverish, and his grip on
Garion's hand tightened.
"I'll stop him, Lelldorin," Garion vowed. "I don't know how yet, but one way or
another, I'll stop him."
Lelldorin sank weakly back on the litter, his strength seeming to run out as if
the necessity for extracting that promise had been the only thing sustaining
him.
"Good-bye, Lelldorin," Garion said softly, his eyes filling with tears.
"Good-bye, my friend," Lelldorin barely more than whispered, and then his eyes
closed, and the hand gripping Garion's went limp. Garion stared at him with a
dreadful fear until he saw the faint flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his
throat. Lelldorin was still alive - if only barely. Garion tenderly put down his
friend's hand and pulled the rough gray blanket up around his shoulders. Then he
stood up and walked quickly away with tears running down his cheeks.
The rest of the farewells were brief, and they remounted and rode at a trot
toward the Great West Road. There were a few cheers from the serfs and pikemen
as they passed, but in the distance there was another sound. The women from the
villages had come out to search for their men among the bodies littering the
field, and their wails and shrieks mocked the cheers.
With deliberate purpose, Garion pushed his horse forward until he drew in beside
Mandorallen. "I have something to say to you," he said hotly. "You aren't going
to like it, but I don't really care."
"Oh?" the knight replied mildly.
"I think the way you talked to Lelldorin back there was cruel and disgusting,"
Garion told him. "You might think you're the greatest knight in the world, but I
think you're a loud-mouthed braggart with no more compassion than a block of
stone, and if you don't like it, what do you plan to do about it?"
"Ah," Mandorallen said. "That! I think that thou hast misunderstood, my young
friend. It was necessary in order to save his life. The Asturian youth is very
brave and so gives no thought to himself. Had I not spoken so to him, he would
surely have insisted upon continuing with us and would soon have died."
"Died?" Garion scoffed. "Aunt Pol could have cured him."
"It was the Lady Polgara herself who informed me that his life was in danger,"
Mandorallen replied. "His honor would not permit him to seek proper care, but
that same honor prevailed upon him to remain behind lest he delay us." The
knight smiled wryly. "He will, I think, be no fonder of me for my words than
thou art, but he will be alive, and that's what matters, is it not?"
Garion stared at the arrogant-seeming Mimbrate, his anger suddenly robbed of its
target. With painful clarity he realized that he had just made a fool of
himself. "I'm sorry," he apologized grudgingly. "I didn't realize what you were
doing."
Mandorallen shrugged. "It's not important. I'm frequently misunderstood. As long
as I know that my motives are good, however, I'm seldom very concerned with the
opinions of others. I'm glad, though, that I had the opportunity to explain this
to thee. Thou art to be my companion, and it ill-behooves companions to have
misapprehensions about each other."
They rode on in silence as Garion struggled to readjust his thinking. There was,
it seemed, much more to Mandorallen than he had suspected.
They reached the highway then and turned south again under a threatening sky.
Chapter Eight
THE ARENDISH PLAIN WAS A VAST, rolling grassland Only sparsely settled. The wind
sweeping across the dried grass was raw and chill, and dirty-looking clouds
scudded overhead as they rode. The necessity for leaving the injured Lelldorin
behind had put them all into a melancholy mood, and for the most part they
traveled in silence for the next several days. Garion rode at the rear with
Hettar and the packhorses, doing his best to stay away from Mandorallen.
Hettar was a silent man who seemed undisturbed by hours of riding without
conversation; but after two days of this, Garion made a deliberate effort to
draw the hawk-faced Algar out.
"Why is it that you hate Murgos so much, Hettar?" he asked for want of something
better to say.
"All Alorns hate Murgos," Hettar answered quietly.
"Yes," Garion admitted, "but it seems to be something personal with you. Why is
that?"
Hettar shifted in his saddle, his leather clothing creaking. "They killed my
parents," he replied.
Garion felt a sudden shock as the Algar's words struck a responsive note.
"How did it happen?" he asked before he realized that Hettar might prefer not to
talk about it.
"I was seven," Hettar told him in an unemotional voice. "We were going to visit
my mother's family - she was from a different clan. We had to pass near the
eastern escarpment, and a Murgo raiding-party caught us. My mother's horse
stumbled, and she was thrown. The Murgos were on us before my father and I could
get her back on her horse. They took a long time to kill my parents. I remember
that my mother screamed once, near the end." The Algar's face was as bleak as
rock, and his flat, quiet voice made his story seem that much more dreadful.
"After my parents were dead, the Murgos tied a rope around my feet and dragged
me behind one of their horses," he continued. "When the rope finally broke, they
thought I was dead, and they all rode off. They were laughing about it as I
recall. Cho-Hag found me a couple of days later."
As clearly as if he had been there, Garion had a momentary picture of a child,
dreadfully injured and alone, wandering in the emptiness of eastern Algaria with
only grief and a terrible hatred keeping him alive.
"I killed my first Murgo when I was ten," Hettar went on in the same flat voice.
"He was trying to escape from us, and I rode him down and put a javelin between
his shoulders. He screamed when the javelin went through him. That made me feel
better. Cho-Hag thought that if he made me watch the Murgo die, it might cure me
of the hatred. He was wrong about that, though." The tall Algar's face was
expressionless, and his wind-whipped scalp lock tossed and flowed out behind
him. There was a kind of emptiness about him as if he were devoid of any feeling
but that one driving compulsion.
For an instant Garion dimly understood what Mister Wolf had been driving at when
he had warned about the danger of becoming obsessed with a desire for revenge,
but he pushed the notion out of his mind. If Hettar could live with it, so could
he. He felt a sudden fierce admiration for this lonely hunter in black leather.
Mister Wolf was deep in conversation with Mandorallen, and the two of them
loitered until Hettar and Garion caught up with them. For a time they rode along
together.
"It is our nature," the knight in his gleaming armor was saying in a melancholy
voice. "We are over-proud, and it is our pride that dooms our poor Arendia to
internecine war."
"That can be cured," Mister Wolf said.
"How?" Mandorallen asked. "It is in our blood. I myself am the most peaceful of
men, but even I am subject to our national disease. Moreover, our divisions are
too great, too buried in our history and our souls to be purged away. The peace
will not last, my friend. Even now Asturian arrows sing in the forests, seeking
Mimbrate targets, and Mimbre in reprisal burns Asturian houses and butchers
hostages. War is inevitable, I fear."
"No," Wolf disagreed, "it's not."
"How may it be prevented?" Mandorallen demanded. "Who can cure our insanity?"
"I will, if I have to," Wolf told him quietly, pushing back his gray hood.
Mandorallen smiled wanly. "I appreciate thy good intentions, Belgarath, but that
is impossible, even for thee."
"Nothing is actually impossible, Mandorallen," Wolf answered in a matter-of fact
voice. "Most of the time I prefer not to interfere with other people's
amusements, but I can't afford to have Arendia going up in flames just now. If I
have to, I'll step in and put a stop to any more foolishness."
"Hast thou in truth such power?" Mandorallen asked somewhat wistfully as if he
could not quite bring himself to believe it.
"Yes," Wolf replied prosaically, scratching at his short white beard, "as a
matter of fact, I do."
Mandorallen's face grew troubled, even a bit awed at the old man's quiet
statement, and Garion found his grandfather's declaration profoundly disturbing.
If Wolf could actually stop a war single-handedly, he'd have no difficulty at
all thwarting Garion's own plans for revenge. It was something else to worry
about.
Then Silk rode back toward them. "The Great Fair's just ahead," the rat-faced
man announced. "Do we want to stop, or should we go around it.
"We might as well stop," Wolf decided. "It's almost evening, and we need some
supplies."
"The horses could use some rest, too," Hettar said. "They're starting to
complain."
"You should have told me," Wolf said, glancing back at the pack train.
"They're not really in bad shape yet," Hettar informed him, "but they're
starting to feel sorry for themselves. They're exaggerating of course, but a
little rest wouldn't hurt them."
"Exaggerating?" Silk sounded shocked. "You don't mean to say that horses can
actually lie, do you?"
Hettar shrugged. "Of course. They lie all the time. They're very good at it."
For a moment Silk looked outraged at the thought, and then he suddenly laughed.
"Somehow that restores my faith in the order of the universe," he declared.
Wolf looked pained. "Silk," he said pointedly, "you're a very evil man. Did you
know that?"
"One does one's best," Silk replied mockingly.
The Arendish Fair lay at the intersection of the Great West Road and the
mountain track leading down out of Ulgoland. It was a vast collection of blue,
red and yellow tents and broad-striped pavilions stretching for a league or more
in every direction. It appeared like a brightly hued city in the midst of the
dun-colored plain, and its brilliant pennons snapped bravely in the endless wind
under a lowering sky.
"I hope I'll have time to do some business," Silk said as they rode down a long
hill toward the Fair. The little man's sharp nose was twitching. "I'm starting
to get out of practice."
A half dozen mud-smeared beggars crouched miserably beside the road, their hands
outstretched. Mandorallen paused and scattered some coins among them.
"You shouldn't encourage them," Barak growled.
"Charity is both a duty and a privilege, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen replied.
"Why don't they build houses here?" Garion asked Silk as they approached the
central part of the Fair.
"Nobody stays here that long," Silk explained. "The Fair's always here, but the
population's very fluid. Besides, buildings are taxed; tents aren't."
Many of the merchants who came out of their tents to watch the party pass seemed
to know Silk, and some of them greeted him warily, suspicion plainly written on
their faces.
"I see that your reputation's preceded you, Silk," Barak observed dryly.
Silk shrugged. "The price of fame."
"Isn't there some danger that somebody'll recognize you as that other merchant?"
Durnik asked. "The one the Murgos are looking for?"
"You mean Ambar? It's not very likely. Ambar doesn't come to Arendia very often,
and he and Radek don't look a bit alike."
"But they're the same man," Durnik objected. "They're both you."
"Ah," Silk said, raising one finger, "you and I both know that, but they don't.
To you I always look like myself, but to others I look quite different."
Durnik looked profoundly skeptical.
"Radek, old friend," a bald Drasnian merchant called from a nearby tent.
"Delvor," Silk replied delightedly. "I haven't seen you in years."
"You look prosperous," the bald man observed.
"Getting by," Silk responded modestly. "What are you dealing in now?"
"I've got a few Mallorean carpets," Delvor told him. "Some of the local nobles
are interested, but they don't like the price." His hands, however, were already
speaking of other matters.-Your uncle sent out word that we were to help you if
necessary. Do you need anything?"What are you carrying in your packs?" he asked
aloud.
"Sendarian woolens," Silk answered, "and a few other odds and ends." Have you
seen any Murgos here at the Fair?
-One, but he left for Vo Mimbre a week ago. There are some Nadraks on the far
side of the Fair, though
-They're a long way from home-Silk gestured. Are they really in business?
It's hard to say-Delvor answered.
-Can you put us up for a day or so?
I'm sure we can work something out Delvor replied with a sly twinkle in his
eyes.
Silk's fingers betrayed his shock at the suggestion.
-Business is business, after all-Delvor gestured. "You must come inside," he
said aloud. "Take a cup of wine, have some supper. We have years of catching up
to do."
"We'd be delighted," Silk returned somewhat sourly.
"Could it be that you've met your match, Prince Kheldar?" Aunt Pal inquired
softly with a faint smile as the little man helped her down from her horse in
front of Delvor's brightly striped pavilion.
"Delvor? Hardly. He's been trying to get even with me for yearsever since a ploy
of mine in Yar Gorak cost him a fortune. I'll let him think he's got me for a
while though. It will make him feel good, and I'll enjoy it that much more when
I pull the rug out from under him."
She laughed. "You're incorrigible."
He winked at her.
The interior of Delvor's main pavilion was ruddy in the light of several glowing
braziers that put out a welcome warmth. The floor was covered with a deep blue
carpet, and large red cushions were scattered here and there to sit upon. Once
they were inside, Silk quickly made the introductions.
"I'm honored, Ancient One," Delvor murmured, bowing deeply to Mister Wolf and
then to Aunt Pol. "What can I do to help?"
"Right now we need information more than anything," Wolf replied, pulling ofi'
his heavy cloak. "We ran into a Grolim stirring up trouble a few days north of
here. Can you nose about and find out what's happening between here and Vo
Mimbre? I'd like to avoid any more neighborhood squabbles if possible."
"I'll make inquiries," Delvor promised.
"I'll be moving around too," Silk said. "Between us, Delvor and I should be able
to sift out most of the loose information in the Fair." Wolf looked at him
inquiringly.
"Radek of Boktor never passes up a chance to do business," the little man
explained just a bit too quickly. "It would look very strange if he stayed in
Delvor's tent."
"I see," Wolf said.
"We wouldn't want anything to spoil our disguise, would we?" Silk asked
innocently. His long nose, however, was twitching even more violently.
Wolf surrendered. "All right. But don't get exotic. I don't want a crowd of
outraged customers outside the tent in the morning howling for your head."
Delvor's porters took the packs from the spare horses, and one of them showed
Hettar the way to the horse pens on the outskirts of the Fair. Silk began
rummaging through the packs. A myriad of small, expensive items began to pile up
on Delvor's carpet as Silk's quick hands dipped into the corners and folds of
the wool cloth.
"I wondered why you needed so much money in Camaar," Wolf commented dryly.
"Just part of the disguise," Silk replied. "Radek always has a few curios with
him for trade along the way."
"That's a very convenient explanation," Barak observed, "but I wouldn't run it
into the ground if I were you."
"If I can't double our old friend's money in the next hour, I'll retire
permanently," Silk promised. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'll need Garion to act as a
porter for me. Radek always has at least one porter."
"Try not to corrupt him too much," Aunt Pol said.
Silk bowed extravagantly and set his black velvet cap at a jaunty angle; with
Garion at his heels, carrying a stout sack of his treasures, he swaggered out
into the Great Arendish Fair like a man going into battle.
A fat Tolnedran three tents down the way proved troublesome and succeeded in
getting a jeweled dagger away from Silk for only three times what it was worth,
but two Arendish merchants in a row bought identical silver goblets at prices
which, though widely different, more than made up for that setback. "I love to
deal with Arends," Silk gloated as they moved on down the muddy streets between
the pavilions.
The sly little Drasnian moved through the Fair, wreaking havoc as he went. When
he could not sell, he bought; when he could not buy, he traded; and when he
could not trade, he dredged for gossip and information. Some of the merchants,
wiser than their fellows, saw him coming and promptly hid from him. Garion,
swept along by the little man's enthusiasm, began to understand his friend's
fascination with this game where profit was secondary to the satisfaction of
besting an opponent.
Silk's predations were broadly ecumenical. He was willing to deal with anyone.
He met them all on their own ground. Tolnedrans, Arends, Chereks, fellow
Drasnians, Sendars - all fell before him. By midafternoon he had disposed of all
of what he had bought in Camaar. His full purse jingled, and the sack on
Garion's shoulder was still as heavy, but now it contained entirely new
merchandise.
Silk, however, was frowning. He walked along bouncing a small, exquisitely blown
glass bottle on the palm of his hand. He had traded two ivory-bound books of
Wacite verse to a Rivan for the little bottle of perfume. "What's the trouble?"
Garion asked him as they walked back toward Delvor's pavilions.
"I'm not sure who won," Silk told him shortly.
"What?"
"I don't have any idea what this is worth."
"Why did you take it, then?"
"I didn't want him to know that I didn't know its value."
"Sell it to somebody else."
"How can I sell it if I don't know what to ask for it? If I ask too much,
nobody'll talk to me; and if I ask too little, I'll be laughed out of the Fair."
Garion started to chuckle.
"I don't see that it's all that funny, Garion," Silk said sensitively. He
remained moody and irritable as they entered the pavilion. "Here's the profit I
promised you," he told Mister Wolf somewhat ungraciously as he poured coins into
the old man's hand.
"What's bothering you?" Wolf asked, eyeing the little man's grumpy face.
"Nothing," Silk replied shortly. Then he glanced over at Aunt Pol, and a broad
smile suddenly appeared on his face. He crossed to her and bowed. "My dear Lady
Polgara, please accept this trifling memento of my regard for you." With a
flourish he presented the perfume bottle to her.
Aunt Pol's look was a peculiar mixture of pleasure and suspicion. She took the
small bottle and carefully worked out the tightly fitting stopper. Then with a
delicate gesture she touched the stopper to the inside of her wrist and raised
the wrist to her face to catch the fragrance. "Why, Kheldar," she exclaimed with
delight, "this is a princely gift."
Silk's smile turned a bit sickly, and he peered sharply at her, trying to
determine if she was serious or not. Then he sighed and went outside, muttering
darkly to himself about the duplicity of Rivans.
Delvor returned not long afterward, dropped his striped cloak in one corner and
held out his hands to one of the glowing braziers. "As near as I was able to
find out, things are quiet between here and Vo Mimbre," he reported to Mister
Wolf, "but five Murgos just rode into the Fair with two dozen Thulls behind
them."
Hettar looked up quickly, his hawk face alert.
Wolf frowned. "Did they come from the north or the south?"
"They claim to have come from Vo Mimbre, but there's red clay on the Thulls'
boots. I don't think there's any clay between here and Vo Mimbre, is there?"
"None," Mandorallen declared firmly. "The only clay in the region is to the
north."
Wolf nodded. "Get Silk back inside," he told Barak. Barak went to the tent flap.
"Couldn't it just be a coincidence?" Durnik wondered.
"I don't think we want to take that chance," Wolf answered. "We'll wait until
the Fair settles down for the night and then slip away."
Silk came back inside, and he and Delvor spoke together briefly.
"It won't take the Murgos long to find out we've been here," Barak rumbled,
tugging thoughtfully at his red beard. "Then we'll have them dogging our heels
every step of the way from here to Vo Mimbre. Wouldn't it simplify things if
Hettar, Mandorallen, and I go pick a fight with them? Five dead Murgos aren't
going to follow anybody."
Hettar nodded with a certain dreadful eagerness.
"I don't know if that would set too well with the Tolnedran legionnaires who
police the Fair," Silk drawled. "Policemen seem to worry about unexplained
bodies. It upsets their sense of neatness."
Barak shrugged. "It was a thought."
"I think I've got an idea," Delvor said, pulling on his cloak again. "They set
up their tents near the pavilions of the Nadraks. I'll go do some business with
them." He started toward the tent flap, then paused. "I don't know if it means
anything," he told them, "but I found out that the leader is a Murgo named
Asharak."
Garion felt a sudden chill at the mention of the name.
Barak whistled and looked suddenly very grim. "We're going to have to attend to
that one sooner or later, Belgarath," he declared.
"You know him?" Delvor did not seem very surprised.
"We've met a time or two," Silk replied in an offhand way.
"He's starting to make a nuisance of himself," Aunt Pol agreed.
"I'll get started," Delvor said.
Garion lifted the tent flap to allow Delvor to leave; but as he glanced outside,
he let out a startled gasp and jerked the flap shut again.
"What's the matter?" Silk asked him.
"I think I just saw Brill out there in the street."
"Let me see," Durnik said. His fingers parted the flap slightly, and he and
Garion both peered out. A slovenly figure loitered in the muddy street outside.
Brill had not changed much since they'd left Faldor's farm. His tunic and hose
were still patched and stained; his face was still unshaven, and his cast eye
still gleamed with a kind of unwholesome whiteness.
"It's Brill, all right," Durnik confirmed. "He's close enough for me to smell
him."
Delvor looked at the smith inquiringly.
"Brill bathes irregularly," Durnik explained. "He's a fragrant sort of a
fellow."
"May I?" Delvor asked politely. He glanced out over Durnik's shoulder. "Ah," he
said, "that one. He works for the Nadraks. I thought that was a little strange,
but he didn't seem important, so I didn't bother to investigate."
"Durnik," Wolf said quickly, "step outside for a moment. Make sure he sees you,
but don't let him know that you know he's there. After he sees you, come back
inside. Hurry. We don't want to let him get away."
Durnik looked baffled, but he lifted the tent flap and stepped out.
"What are you up to, father?" Aunt Pol asked rather sharply. "Don't just stand
there smirking, old man. That's very irritating."
"It's perfect," Wolf chortled, rubbing his hands together.
Durnik came back in, his face worried. "He saw me," he reported. "Are you sure
this is a good idea?"
"Of course," Wolf replied. "Asharak's obviously here because of us, and he's
going to be looking all over the Fair for us."
"Why make it easy for him?" Aunt Pol asked.
"We won't," Wolf replied. "Asharak's used Brill before - in Murgos, remember? He
brought Brill down here because Brill would recognize you or me or Durnik or
Garion - probably Barak too, and maybe Silk. Is he still out there?"
Garion peered out through the narrow opening. After a moment he saw the unkempt
Brill half hidden between two tents across the street. "He's still there," he
answered.
"We'll want to keep him there," Wolf said. "We'll have to be sure that he
doesn't get bored and go back to report to Asharak that he's found us."
Silk looked at Delvor, and they both began to laugh.
"What's funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously.
"You almost have to be a Drasnian to appreciate it," Silk replied. He looked at
Wolf admiringly. "Sometimes you amaze me, old friend."
Mister Wolf winked at him.
"Thy plan still escapes me," Mandorallen confessed.
"May I?" Silk asked Wolf. He turned back to the knight. "It goes like this,
Mandorallen. Asharak's counting on Brill to find us for him, but as long as we
keep Brill interested enough, he'll delay going back to tell Asharak where we
are. We've captured Asharak's eyes, and that puts him at quite a disadvantage."
"But will this curious Sendar not follow us as soon as we leave the tent?"
Mandorallen asked. "When we ride from the Fair, the Murgos will be immediately
behind us."
"The back wall of the tent is only canvas, Mandorallen," Silk pointed out
gently. "With a sharp knife you can make as many doors in it as you like."
Delvor winced slightly, then sighed. "I'll go see the Murgos," he said. "I think
I can delay them even more."
"Durnik and I'll go out with you," Silk told his bald friend. "You go one way,
and we'll go another. Brill will follow us, and we can lead him back here."
Delvor nodded, and the three of them went out.
"Isn't all this unnecessarily complicated?" Barak asked sourly. "Brill doesn't
know Hettar. Why not just have Hettar slip out the back, circle around behind
him, and stick a knife between his ribs? Then we could stuff him in a sack and
drop him in a ditch somewhere after we leave the Fair."
Wolf shook his head. "Asharak would miss him," he replied. "I want him to tell
the Murgos that we're in this tent. With any luck, they'll sit outside for a day
or so before they realize that we're gone."
For the next several hours various members of the party went out into the street
in front of the tent on short and wholly imaginary errands to hold the attention
of the lurking Brill. When Garion stepped out into the gathering darkness, he
put on a show of unconcern, although his skin prickled as he felt Brill's eyes
on him. He went into Delvor's supply tent and waited for several minutes. The
noise from a tavern pavilion several rows of tents over seemed very loud in the
growing stillness of the Fair as Garion waited nervously in the dark supply
tent. Finally he drew a deep breath and went out again, one arm tucked up as if
he were carrying something. "I found it, Durnik," he announced as he reentered
the main pavilion.
"There's no need to improvise, dear," Aunt Pol remarked.
"I just wanted to sound natural," he replied innocently.
Delvor returned soon after that, and they all waited in the warm tent as it grew
darker outside and the streets emptied. Once it was fully dark, Delvor's porters
pulled the packs out through a slit in the back of the tent. Silk, Delvor, and
Hettar went with them to the horse pens on the outskirts of the Fair while the
rest remained long enough to keep Brill from losing interest. In a final attempt
at misdirection, Mister Wolf and Barak went outside to discuss the probable
conditions of the road to Prolgu in Ulgoland.
"It might not work," Wolf admitted as he and the big red-bearded man came back
inside. "Asharak's sure to know that we're following Zedar south, but if Brill
tells him that we're going to Prolgu, it might make him divide his forces to
cover both roads." He looked around the inside of the tent. "All right," he
said. "Let's go."
One by one they squeezed out through the slit in the back of the tent and crept
into the next street. Then, walking at a normal pace like serious people on
honest business, they proceeded toward the horse pens. They passed the tavern
pavilion where several men were singing. The streets were mostly empty by now,
and the night breeze brushed the city of tents, fluttering the pennons and
banners.
Then they reached the edge of the Fair where Silk, Delvor and Hettar waited with
their mounts.
"Good luck," Delvor said as they prepared to mount. "I'll delay the Murgos for
as long as I can."
Silk shook his friend's hand. "I'd still like to know where you got those lead
coins."
Delvor winked at him.
"What's this?" Wolf asked.
"Delvor's got some Tolnedran crowns stamped out of lead and gilded over," Silk
told him. "He hid some of them in the Murgos' tent, and tomorrow morning he's
going to go to the legionnaires with a few of them and accuse the Murgos of
passing them. When the legionnaires search the Murgos' tent, they're sure to
find the others."
"Money's awfully important to Tolnedrans," Barak observed. "If the legionnaires
get excited enough about those coins, they might start hanging people."
Delvor smirked. "Wouldn't that be a terrible shame?"
They mounted then and rode away from the horse pens toward the highway. It was a
cloudy night, and once they were out in the open the breeze was noticeably
brisk. Behind them the Fair gleamed and twinkled under the night sky like some
vast city.
Garion drew his cloak about him. It was a lonely feeling to be on a dark road on
a windy night when everyone else in the world had a fire and a bed and walls
around him. Then they reached the Great West Road stretching pale and empty
across the dark, rolling Arendish plain and turned south again.
Chapter Nine
THE WIND PICKED UP AGAIN shortly before dawn and was blowing briskly by the time
the sky over the low foothills to the east began to lighten. Garion was numb
with exhaustion by then, and his mind had drifted into an almost dreamlike
trance. The faces of his companions all seemed strange to him as the pale light
began to grow stronger. At times he even forgot why they rode. He seemed caught
in a company of grim-faced strangers pounding along a road to nowhere through a
bleak, featureless landscape with their wind-whipped cloaks flying dark behind
them like the clouds scudding low and dirty overhead. A peculiar idea began to
take hold of him. The strangers were somehow his captors, and they were taking
him away from his real friends. The idea seemed to grow stronger the farther
they rode, and he began to be afraid.
Suddenly, without knowing why, he wheeled his horse and broke away, plunging off
the side of the road and across the open field beside it.
"Garion!" a woman's voice called sharply from behind, but he set his heels to
his horse's flanks and sped even faster across the rough field.
One of them was chasing him, a frightening man in black leather with a shaved
head and a dark lock at his crown flowing behind him in the wind. In a panic
Garion kicked at his horse, trying to make the beast run even faster, but the
fearsome rider behind him closed the gap quickly and seized the reins from his
hands.
"What are you doing?" he demanded harshly.
Garion stared at him, unable to answer.
Then the woman in the blue cloak was there, and the others not far behind her.
She dismounted quickly and stood looking at him with a stern face. She was tall
for a woman, and her face was cold and imperious. Her hair was very dark, and
there was a single white lock at her brow.
Garion trembled. The woman made him terribly afraid.
"Get down off that horse," she commanded.
"Gently, Pol," a silvery-haired old man with an evil face said.
A huge red-bearded giant rode closer, threatening, and Garion, almost sobbing
with fright, slid down from his horse.
"Come here," the woman ordered.
Falteringly, Garion approached her.
"Give me your hand," she said.
Hesitantly, he lifted his hand and she took his wrist firmly. She opened his
fingers to reveal the ugly mark on his palm that he seemed to always have hated
and then put his hand against the white lock in her hair.
"Aunt Pol," he gasped, the nightmare suddenly dropping away. She put her arms
about him tightly and held him for some time. Strangely, he was not even
embarrassed by that display of affection in front of the others.
"This is serious, father," she told Mister Wolf.
"What happened, Garion?" Wolf asked, his voice calm.
"I don't know," Garion replied. "I was as if I didn't know any of you, and you
were my enemies, and all I wanted to do was run away to try to get back to my
real friends."
"Are you still wearing the amulet I gave you?"
"Yes."
"Have you had it off at any time since I gave it to you?"
"Just once," Garion admitted. "When I took a bath in the Tolnedran hostel."
Wolf sighed. "You can't take it off," he said, "not ever - not for any reason.
Take it out from under your tunic."
Garion drew out the silver pendant with the strange design on it. The old man
took a medallion out from under his own tunic. It was very bright and there was
upon it the figure of a standing wolf so lifelike that it looked almost ready to
lope away.
Aunt Pol, her one arm still about Garion's shoulders, drew a similar amulet out
of her bodice. Upon the disc of her medallion was the figure of an owl. "Hold it
in your right hand, dear," she instructed, firmly closing Garion's fingers over
the pendant. Then, holding her amulet in her own right hand, she placed her left
hand over his closed fist. Wolf, also holding his talisman, put his hand on
theirs.
Garion's palm began to tingle as if the pendant were suddenly alive. Mister Wolf
and Aunt Pol looked at each other for a long moment, and the tingling in
Garion's hand suddenly became very strong. His mind seemed to open, and strange
things flickered before his eyes. He saw a round room very high up somewhere. A
fire burned, but there was no wood in it. At a table there was seated an old man
who looked somewhat like Mister Wolf but obviously was someone else. He seemed
to be looking directly at Garion, and his eyes were kindly, even affectionate.
Garion was suddenly overwhelmed with a consuming love for the old man.
"That should be enough," Wolf judged, releasing Garion's hand.
"Who was the old man?" Garion asked.
"My Master," Wolf replied.
"What happened?" Durnik asked, his face concerned.
"It's probably better not to talk about it," Aunt Pol said. "Do you think you
could build a fire? It's time for breakfast."
"There are some trees over there where we can get out of the wind," Durnik
suggested.
They all remounted and rode toward the trees.
After they had eaten, they sat by the small fire for a while. They were tired,
and none of them felt quite up to facing the blustery morning again. Garion felt
particularly exhausted, and he wished that he were young enough to sit close
beside Aunt Pol and perhaps to put his head in her lap and sleep as he had done
when he was very young. The strange thing that had happened made him feel very
much alone and more than a little frightened. "Durnik," he said, more to drive
the mood away than out of any real curiosity. "What sort of bird is that?" He
pointed.
"A raven, I think," Durnik answered, looking at the bird circling above them.
"I thought so too," Garion said, "but they don't usually circle, do they?"
Durnik frowned. "Maybe it's watching something on the ground."
"How long has it been up there?" Wolf asked, squinting up at the large bird.
"I think I first saw it when we were crossing the field." Garion told him.
Mister Wolf glanced over at Aunt Pol. "What do you think?"
She looked up from one of Garion's stockings she had been mending. "I'll see."
Her face took on a strange, probing expression.
Garion felt a peculiar tingling again. On an impulse he tried to push his own
mind out toward the bird.
"Garion," Aunt Pol said without looking at him, "stop that."
"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly and pulled his mind back where it belonged.
Mister Wolf looked at him with a strange expression, then winked at him.
"It's Chamdar," Aunt Pol announced calmly. She carefully pushed her needle into
the stocking and set it aside. Then she stood up and shook off her blue cloak.
"What have you got in mind?" Wolf asked.
"I think I'll go have a little chat with him," she replied, flexing her fingers
like talons.
"You'd never catch him," Wolf told her. "Your feathers are too soft for this
kind of wind. There's an easier way." The old man swept the windy sky with a
searching gaze. "Over there." He pointed at a barely visible speck above the
hills to the west. "You'd better do it, Pol. I don't get along with birds."
"Of course, father," she agreed. She looked intently at the speck, and Garion
felt the tingle as she sent her mind out again. The speck began to circle,
rising higher and higher until it disappeared.
The raven did not see the plummeting eagle until the last instant, just before
the larger bird's talons struck. There was a sudden puff of black feathers, and
the raven, screeching with fright, flapped wildly away with the eagle in
pursuit.
"Nicely done, Pol," Wolf approved.
"It will give him something to think about." She smiled. "Don't stare, Durnik."
Durnik was gaping at her, his mouth open. "How did you do that?"
"Do you really want to know?" she asked.
Durnik shuddered and looked away quickly.
"I think that just about settles it," Wolf said. "Disguises are probably useless
now. I'm not sure what Chamdar's up to, but he's going to be watching us every
step of the way. We might as well arm ourselves and ride straight on to Vo
Mimbre."
"Aren't we going to follow the trail anymore?" Barak asked.
"The trail goes south," Wolf replied. "I can pick it up again once we cross over
into Tolnedra. But first I want to stop by and have a word with King Korodullin.
There are some things he needs to know."
"Korodullin?" Durnik looked puzzled. "Wasn't that the name of the first Arendish
king? It seems to me somebody told me that once."
"All Arendish kings are named Korodullin," Silk told him. "And the queens are
all named Mayaserana. It's part of the fiction the royal family here maintains
to keep the kingdom from flying apart. They have to marry as closely within the
bloodline as possible to maintain the illusion of the unification of the houses
of Mimbre and Asturia. It makes them all a bit sickly, but there's no help for
it - considering the peculiar nature of Arendish politics."
"All right, Silk," Aunt Pol said reprovingly.
Mandorallen looked thoughtful. "Could it be that this Chamdar who so dogs our
steps is one of great substance in the dark society of the Grolims?" he asked.
"He'd like to be," Wolf answered. "Zedar and Ctuchik are Torak's disciples, and
Chamdar wants to be one as well. He's always been Ctuchik's agent, but he may
believe that this is his chance to move up in the Grolim hierarchy. Ctuchik's
very old, and he spends all his time in the temple of Torak at Rak Cthol. Maybe
Chamdar thinks it's time that someone else became High Priest."
"Is Torak's body at Rak Cthol?" Silk asked quickly.
Mister Wolf shrugged. "Nobody knows for sure, but I doubt it. After Zedar
carried him away from the battlefield at Vo Mimbre, I don't think he'd have just
handed him over to Ctuchik. He could be in Mallorea or somewhere in the southern
reaches of Cthol Murgos. It's hard to say."
"But at the moment, Chamdar's the one we have to worry about," Silk concluded.
"Not if we keep moving," Wolf told him.
"We'd better get moving then," Barak said, standing up.
By midmorning the heavy clouds had begun to break up, and patches of blue sky
showed here and there. Enormous pillars of sunlight stalked ponderously across
the rolling fields that waited, damp and expectant, for the first touches of
spring. With Mandorallen in the lead they had ridden hard and had covered a good
six leagues. Finally they slowed to a walk to allow their steaming horses to
rest.
"How much farther is it to Vo Mimbre, grandfather?" Garion asked, pulling his
horse in beside Mister Wolf.
"Sixty leagues at least," Wolf answered. "Probably closer to eighty."
"That's a long way." Garion winced as he shifted in his saddle.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry I ran away like that back there," Garion apologized.
"It wasn't your fault. Chamdar was playing games."
"Why did he pick me? Couldn't he have done the same thing to Durnik - or Barak?"
Mister Wolf looked at him. "You're younger, more susceptible."
"That's not really it, is it?" Garion accused.
"No," Wolf admitted, "not really, but it's an answer, of sorts."
"This is another one of those things you aren't going to tell me, isn't it?"
"I suppose you could say that," Wolf answered blandly.
Garion sulked about that for a while, but Mister Wolf rode on, seemingly
unconcerned by the boy's reproachful silence.
They stopped that night at a Tolnedran hostel, which, like all of them, was
plain, adequate, and expensive. The next morning the sky had cleared except for
billowy patches of white cloud scampering before the brisk wind. The sight of
the sun made them all feel better, and there was even some bantering between
Silk and Barak as they rode along - something Garion hadn't heard in all the
weeks they'd spent traveling under the gloomy skies of northern Arendia.
Mandorallen, however, scarcely spoke that morning, and his face grew more somber
with each passing mile. He was not wearing his armor, but instead a mail suit
and a deep blue surcoat. His head was bare, and the wind tugged at his curly
hair.
On a nearby hilltop a bleak-looking castle brooded down at them as they passed,
its grim walls high and haughty-looking. Mandorallen seemed to avoid looking at
it, and his face became even more melancholy.
Garion found it difficult to make up his mind about Mandorallen. He was honest
enough with himself to admit that much of his thinking was still clouded by
Lelldorin's prejudices. He didn't really want to like Mandorallen; but aside
from the habitual gloominess which seemed characteristic of all Arends and the
studied and involuted archaism of the man's speech and his towering self
confidence, there seemed little actually to dislike.
A half league along the road from the castle, a ruin sat at the top of a long
rise. It was not much more than a single wall with a high archway in the center
and broken columns on either side. Near the ruin a woman sat on horseback, her
dark red cape flowing in the wind.
Without a word, almost without seeming to think about it, Mandorallen turned his
warhorse from the road and cantered up the rise toward the woman, who watched
his approach without any seeming surprise, but also with no particular pleasure.
"Where's he going?" Barak asked.
"She's an acquaintance of his," Mister Wolf said dryly.
"Are we supposed to wait for him?"
"He can catch up with us," Wolf replied.
Mandorallen had stopped his horse near the woman and dismounted. He bowed to her
and held out his hands to help her down from her horse. They walked together
toward the ruin, not touching, but walking very close to each other. They
stopped beneath the archway and talked. Behind the ruin, clouds raced in the
windy sky, and their enormous shadows swept uncaring across the mournful fields
of Arendia.
"We should have taken a different route," Wolf said. "I wasn't thinking, I
guess."
"Is there some problem?" Durnik asked.
"Nothing unusual - in Arendia," Wolf answered. "I suppose it's my fault.
Sometimes I forget the kind of things that can happen to young people."
"Don't be cryptic, father," Aunt Pol told him. "It's very irritating. Is this
something we should know about?"
Wolf shrugged. "It isn't any secret," he replied. "Half of Arendia knows about
it. A whole generation of Arendish virgins cry themselves to sleep every night
over it."
"Father," Aunt Pol snapped exasperatedly.
"All right," Wolf said. "When Mandorallen was about Garion's age, he showed a
great deal of promise-strong, courageous, not too bright the qualities that make
a good knight. His father asked me for advice, and I made arrangements for the
young man to live for a while with the Baron of Vo Ebor - that's his castle back
there. The baron had an enormous reputation, and he provided Mandorallen with
the kind of instruction he needed. Mandorallen and the baron became almost like
father and son, since the baron was quite a bit older. Everything was going
along fine until the baron got married. His bride, however, was much younger about Mandorallen's age."
"I think I see where this is going," Durnik remarked disapprovingly.
"Not exactly," Wolf disagreed. "After the honeymoon, the baron returned to his
customary knightly pursuits and left a very bored young lady wandering around
his castle. It's a situation with all kinds of interesting possibilities.
Anyway, Mandorallen and the lady exchanged glances - then words - the usual sort
of thing."
"It happens in Sendaria too," Durnik observed, "but I'm sure the name we have
for it is different from the one they use here." His tone was critical, even
offended.
"You're jumping to conclusions, Durnik," Wolf told him. "Things never went any
further. It might have been better if they had. Adultery isn't really all that
serious, and in time they'd have gotten bored with it. But, since they both
loved and respected the baron too much to dishonor him, Mandorallen left the
castle before things could get out of hand. Now they both suffer in silence.
It's all very touching, but it seems like a waste of time to me. Of course I'm
older."
"You're older than everyone, father," Aunt Pol said.
"You didn't have to say that, Pol."
Silk laughed sardonically. "I'm glad to see that our stupendous friend at least
has the bad taste to fall in love with another man's wife. His nobility was
beginning to get rather cloying." The little man's expression had that bitter,
self mocking cast to it Garion had first seen in Val Alorn when they had spoken
with Queen Porenn.
"Does the baron know about it?" Durnik asked.
"Naturally," Wolf replied. "That's the part that makes the Arends get all mushy
inside about it. There was a knight once, stupider than most Arends, who made a
bad joke about it. The baron promptly challenged him and ran a lance through him
during the duel. Since then very few people have found the situation humorous."
"It's still disgraceful," Durnik said.
"Their behavior's above reproach, Durnik," Aunt Pol maintained firmly. "There's
no shame in it as long as it doesn't go any further."
"Decent people don't allow it to happen in the first place," Durnik asserted.
"You'll never convince her, Durnik," Mister Wolf told the smith. "Polgara spent
too many years associating with the Wacite Arends. They were as bad or worse
than the Mimbrates. You can't wallow in that kind of sentimentality for that
long without some of it rubbing off. Fortunately it hasn't totally blotted out
her good sense. She's only occasionally girlish and gushy. If you can avoid her
during those seizures, it's almost as if there was nothing wrong with her."
"My time was spent a little more usefully than yours, father," Aunt Pol observed
acidly. "As I remember, you spent those years carousing in the waterfront dives
in Camaar. And then there was that uplifting period you spent amusing the
depraved women of Maragor. I'm certain those experiences broadened your concept
of morality enormously."
Mister Wolf coughed uncomfortably and looked away.
Behind them, Mandorallen had remounted and begun to gallop back down the hill.
The lady stood in the archway with her red cloak billowing in the wind, watching
him as he rode away.
They were five days on the road before they reached the River Arend, the
boundary between Arendia and Tolnedra. The weather improved as they moved
farther south, and by the morning when they reached the hill overlooking the
river, it was almost warm. The sun was very bright, and a few fleecy clouds
raced overhead in the fresh breeze.
"The high road to Vo Mimbre branches to the left just there," Mandorallen
remarked.
"Yes," Wolf said. "Let's go down into that grove near the river and make
ourselves a bit more presentable. Appearances are very important in Vo Mimbre,
and we don't want to arrive looking like vagabonds."
Three brown-robed and hooded figures stood humbly at the crossroads, their faces
down and their hands held out in supplication. Mister Wolf reined in his horse
and approached them. He spoke with them briefly, then gave each a coin.
"Who are they?" Garion asked.
"Monks from Mar Terin," Silk replied.
"Where's that?"
"It's a monastery in southeastern Tolnedra where Maragor used to be," Silk told
him. "The monks try to comfort the spirits of the Marags."
Mister Wolf motioned to them, and they rode on past the three humble figures at
the roadside. "They say that no Murgos have passed here in the last two weeks."
"Are you sure you can believe them?" Hettar asked.
"Probably. The monks won't lie to anybody."
"Then they'll tell anybody who comes by that we've passed here?" Barak asked.
Wolf nodded. "They'll answer any question anybody puts to them."
"That's an unsavory habit," Barak grunted darkly.
Mister Wolf shrugged and led the way among the trees beside the river. "This
ought to do," he decided, dismounting in a grassy glade. He waited while the
others climbed down from their horses. "All right," he told them, "we're going
to Vo Mimbre. I want you all to be careful about what you say there. Mimbrates
are very touchy, and the slightest word can be taken as an insult."
"I think you should wear the white robe Fulrach gave you, father," Aunt Pol
interrupted, pulling open one of the packs.
"Please, Pol," Wolf said, "I'm trying to explain something."
"They heard you, father. You tend to belabor things too much." She held up the
white robe and looked at it critically. "You should have folded it more
carefully. You've wrinkled it."
"I'm not going to wear that thing," he declared flatly.
"Yes, you are, father," she told him sweetly. "We might have to argue about it
for an hour or two, but you'll wind up wearing it in the end anyway. Why not
just save yourself all the time and aggravation?"
"It's silly," he complained.
"Lots of things are silly, father. I know the Arends better than you do. You'll
get more respect if you look the part. Mandorallen and Hettar and Barak will
wear their armor; Durnik and Silk and Garion can wear the doublets Fulrach gave
them in Sendar; I'll wear my blue gown, and you'll wear the white robe. I
insist, father."
"You what? Now listen here, Polgara-"
"Be still, father," she said absently, examining Garion's blue doublet.
Wolf's face darkened, and his eyes bulged dangerously.
"Was there something else?" she asked with a level gaze.
Mister Wolf let it drop.
"He's as wise as they say he is," Silk observed.
An hour later they were on the high road to Vo Mimbre under a sunny sky.
Mandorallen, once again in full armor and with a blue and silver pennon
streaming from the tip of his lance, led the way with Barak in his gleaming mail
shirt and black bearskin cape riding immediately behind him. At Aunt Pol's
insistence, the big Cherek had combed the tangles out of his red beard and even
rebraided his hair. Mister Wolf in his white robe rode sourly, muttering to
himself, and Aunt Pol sat her horse demurely at his side in a short, fur-lined
cape and with a blue satin headdress surmounting the heavy mass of her dark
hair. Garion and Durnik were ill at ease in their finery, but Silk wore his
doublet and black velvet cap with a kind of exuberant flair. Hettar's sole
concession to formality had been the replacement of a ring of beaten silver for
the leather thong which usually caught in his scalp lock.
The serfs and even the occasional knight they encountered along the way stood
aside and saluted respectfully. The day was warm, the road was good, and their
horses were strong. By midafternoon they crested a high hill overlooking the
plain which sloped down to the gates of Vo Mimbre.
Chapter Ten
THE CITY OF THE MIMBRATE ARENDS reared almost like a mountain beside the
sparkling river. Its thick, high walls were surmounted by massive battlements,
and great towers and slender spires with bright banners at their tips rose
within the walls, gleaming golden in the afternoon sun.
"Behold Vo Mimbre," Mandorallen proclaimed with pride, "queen of cities. Upon
that rock the tide of Angarak crashed and recoiled and crashed again. Upon this
field met they their ruin. The soul and pride of Arendia loth reside within that
fortress, and the power of the Dark One may not prevail against it."
"We've been here before, Mandorallen," Mister Wolf said sourly.
"Don't be impolite, father," Aunt Pol told the old man. Then she turned to
Mandorallen and to Garion's amazement she spoke in an idiom he had never heard
from her lips before. "Wilt thou, Sir Knight, convey us presently into the
palace of thy king? We must needs take council with him in matters of gravest
urgency." She delivered this without the least trace of self-consciousness as if
the archaic formality came quite naturally to her. "Forasmuch as thou art the
mightiest knight on life, we place ourselves under the protection of thy arm."
Mandorallen, after a startled instant, slid with a crash from his warhorse and
sank to his knees before her. "My Lady Polgara," he replied in a voice throbbing
with respect - with reverence even, "I accept thy charge and will convey thee
safely unto King Korodullin. Should any man question thy paramount right to the
king's attention, I shall prove his folly upon his body."
Aunt Pol smiled at him encouragingly, and he vaulted into his saddle with a
clang and led the way at a rolling trot, his whole bearing seething with a
willingness to do battle.
"What was that all about?" Wolf asked.
"Mandorallen needed something to take his mind off his troubles," she replied.
"He's been out of sorts for the last few days."
As they drew closer to the city, Garion could see the scars on the great walls
where heavy stones from the Angarak catapults had struck the unyielding rock.
The battlements high above were chipped and pitted from the impact of showers of
steel-tipped arrows. The stone archway that led into the city revealed the
incredible thickness of the walls, and the ironbound gate was massive. They
clattered through the archway and into the narrow, crooked streets. The people
they passed seemed for the most part to be commoners, who quickly moved aside.
The faces of the men in dun-colored tunics and the women in patched dresses were
dull and uncurious.
"They don't seem very interested in us," Garion commented quietly to Durnik.
"I don't think the ordinary people and the gentry pay much attention to each
other here," Durnik replied. "They live side by side, but they don't know
anything about each other. Maybe that's what's wrong with Arendia."
Garion nodded soberly.
Although the commoners were indifferent, the nobles at the palace seemed afire
with curiosity. Word of the party's entrance into the city apparently had raced
ahead of them through the narrow streets, and the windows and parapets of the
palace were alive with people in brightly colored clothes.
"Abate thy pace, Sir Knight," a tall man with dark hair and beard, wearing a
black velvet surcoat over his polished mail, called down from the parapet to
Mandorallen as they clattered into the broad plaza before the palace. "Lift thy
visor so that I may know thee."
Mandorallen stopped in amazement before the closed gate and raised his visor.
"What discourtesy is this?" he demanded. "I am, as all the world knows,
Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor. Surely thou canst see my crest upon the face of
my shield."
"Any man may wear another's crest," the man above declared disdainfully.
Mandorallen's face darkened. "Art thou not mindful that no man on life would
dare to counterfeit my semblance?" he asked in a dangerous tone.
"Sir Andorig," another knight on the parapet told the dark-haired man, "this is
indeed Sir Mandorallen. I met him on the field of the great tourney last year,
and our meeting cost me a broken shoulder and put a ringing in my ears which
hath not yet subsided."
"Ah," Sir Andorig replied, "since thou wilt vouch for him, Sir Helbergin, I will
admit that this is indeed the bastard of Vo Mandor."
"You're going to have to do something about that one of these days," Barak said
quietly to Mandorallen.
"It would seem so," Mandorallen replied.
"Who, however, are these others with thee who seek admittance, Sir Knight?"
Andorig demanded. "I will not cause the gates to open for foreign strangers."
Mandorallen straightened in his saddle. "Behold!" he announced in a voice that
could probably be heard all over the city. "I bring you honor beyond measure.
Fling wide the palace gate and prepare one and all to make obeisance. You look
upon the holy face of Belgarath the Sorcerer, the Eternal Man, and upon the
divine countenance of his daughter, the Lady Polgara, who have come to Vo Mimbre
to consult with the King of Arendia on diverse matters."
"Isn't that a little overdone?" Garion whispered to Aunt Pol.
"It's customary, dear," she replied placidly. "When you're dealing with Arends,
you have to be a little extravagant to get their attention."
"And who hath told thee that this is the Lord Belgarath?" Andorig asked with the
faintest hint of a sneer. "I will bend no knee before an unproved vagabond."
"Dost thou question my word, Sir Knight?" Mandorallen returned in an ominously
quiet voice. "And wilt thou then come down and put thy doubt to the test? Or is
it perhaps that thou wouldst prefer to cringe doglike behind thy parapet and yap
at thy betters?"
"Oh, that was very good," Barak said admiringly. Mandorallen grinned tightly at
the big man.
"I don't think we're getting anywhere with this," Mister Wolf muttered. "It
looks like I'll have to prove something to this skeptic if we're ever going to
get in to see Korodullin." He slid down from his saddle and thoughtfully removed
a twig from his horse's tail, picked up somewhere during their journey. Then he
strode to the center of the plaza and stood there in his gleaming white robe.
"Sir Knight," he called up mildly to Andorig, "you're a cautious man, I see.
That's a good quality, but it can be carried too far."
"I am hardly a child, old man," the dark-haired knight replied in a tone
hovering on the verge of insult, "and I believe only what mine own eye hath
confirmed."
"It must be a sad thing to believe so little," Wolf observed. He bent then and
inserted the twig he'd been holding between two of the broad granite flagstones
at his feet. He stepped back a pace and stretched his hand out above the twig,
his face curiously gentle. "I'm going to do you a favor, Sir Andorig," he
announced. "I'm going to restore your faith. Watch closely." And then he spoke a
single soft word that Garion couldn't quite hear, but which set off the
now-familiar surge and a faint roaring sound.
At first nothing seemed to be happening. Then the two flagstones began to buckle
upward with a grinding sound as the twig grew visibly thicker and began to reach
up toward Mister Wolf's outstretched hand. There were gasps from the palace
walls as branches began to sprout from the twig as it grew. Wolf raised his hand
higher, and the twig obediently grew at his gesture, its branches broadening. By
now it was a young tree and still growing. One of the flagstones cracked with a
sharp report.
There was absolute silence as every eye fixed in awed fascination on the tree.
Mister Wolf held out both hands and turned them until the palms were up. He
spoke again, and the tips of the branches swelled and began to bud. Then the
tree burst into flower, its blossoms a delicate pink and white.
"Apple, wouldn't you say, Pol?" Wolf asked over his shoulder.
"It appears to be, father," she replied.
He patted the tree fondly and then turned back to the dark-haired knight who had
sunk, white-faced and trembling, to his knees. "Well, Sir Andorig," he inquired,
"what do you believe now?"
"Please forgive me, Holy Belgarath," Andorig begged in a strangled voice.
Mister Wolf drew himself up and spoke sternly, his words slipping into the
measured cadences of the Mimbrate idiom as easily as Aunt Pol's had earlier. "I
charge thee, Sir Knight, to care for this tree. It hath grown here to renew thy
faith and trust. Thy debt to it must be paid with tender and loving attention to
its needs. In time it will bear fruit, and thou wilt gather the fruit and give
it freely to any who ask it of thee. For thy soul's sake, thou wilt refuse none,
no matter how humble. As the tree gives freely, so shalt thou."
"That's a nice touch," Aunt Pol approved. Wolf winked at her.
"I will do even as thou hast commanded me, Holy Belgarath," Sir Andorig choked.
"I pledge my heart to it."
Mister Wolf returned to his horse. "At least he'll do one useful thing in his
life," he muttered.
After that there was no further discussion. The palace gate creaked open, and
they all rode into the inner courtyard and dismounted. Mandorallen led them past
kneeling and even sobbing nobles who reached out to touch Mister Wolf's robe as
he passed. At Mandorallen's heels they walked through the broad, tapestried
hallways with a growing throng behind them. The door to the throne room opened,
and they entered.
The Arendish throne room was a great, vaulted hall with sculptured buttresses
soaring upward along the walls. Tall, narrow windows rose between the
buttresses, and the light streaming through their stainedglass panels was
jeweled. The floor was polished marble, and on the carpeted stone platform at
the far end stood the double throne of Arendia, backed by heavy purple drapes.
Flanking the draped wall hung the massive antique weapons of twenty generations
of Arendish royalty. Lances, maces, and huge swords, taller than any man, hung
among the tattered war banners of forgotten kings.
Korodullin of Arendia was a sickly-looking young man in a goldembroidered purple
robe, and he wore his large gold crown as if it were too heavy for him. Beside
him on the double throne sat his pale, beautiful queen. Together they watched
somewhat apprehensively as the throng surrounding Mister Wolf approached the
wide steps leading up to the throne.
"My King," Mandorallen announced, dropping to one knee, "I bring into thy
presence Holy Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur and the staff upon which the kingdoms
of the West have leaned since time began."
"He knows who I am, Mandorallen," Mister Wolf said. He stepped forward and bowed
briefly. "Hail Korodullin and Mayaserana," he greeted the king and queen. "I'm
sorry we haven't had the chance to get acquainted before."
"The honor is ours, noble Belgarath," the young king replied in a voice whose
rich timbre belied his frail appearance.
"My father spoke often of thee," the queen said.
"We were good friends," Wolf told her. "Allow me to present my daughter,
Polgara."
"Great Lady," the king responded with a respectful inclination of his head. "All
the world knows of thy power, but men have forgotten to speak of thy beauty."
"We'll get along well together," Aunt Pol answered warmly, smiling at him.
"My heart trembles at the sight of the flower of all womanhood," the queen
declared.
Aunt Pol looked at the queen thoughtfully. "We must talk, Mayaserana," she said
in a serious tone, "in private and very soon."
The queen looked startled.
Mister Wolf introduced the rest of them, and each bowed in turn to the young
king.
"Welcome, gentles all," Korodullin said. "My poor court is overwhelmed by so
noble a company."
"We don't have much time, Korodullin," Mister Wolf told him. "The courtesy of
the Arendish throne is the marvel of the world. I don't want to offend you and
your lovely queen by cutting short those stately observances which so ornament
your court, but I have certain news which I have to present to you in private.
The matter is of extreme urgency."
"Then I am at thy immediate disposal," the king replied, rising from his throne.
"Forgive us, dear friends," he said to the assembled nobles, "but this ancient
friend of our kingly line hath information which must be imparted to our ears
alone with utmost urgency. I pray thee, let us go apart for a little space of
time to receive this instruction. We shall return presently."
"Polgara," Mister Wolf said.
"Go ahead, father," she replied. "Just now I have to speak with Mayaserana about
something that's very important to her."
"Can't it wait?"
"No, father, it can't." And with that she took the queen's arm, and the two
left. Mister Wolf stared after her for a moment; then he shrugged, and he and
Korodullin also left the throne room. An almost shocked silence followed their
departure.
"Most unseemly," an old courtier with wispy white hair disapproved. "A necessary
haste, my Lord," Mandorallen informed him. "As the revered Belgarath hath
intimated, our mission is the hinge-pin of the survival of all the kingdoms of
the west. Our Ancient Foe may soon be abroad again. It will not be long, I fear,
ere Mimbrate knights will again stand the brunt of titanic war."
"Blessed then be the tongue which brings the news," the white-haired old man
declared. "I had feared that I had seen my last battle and would die abed in my
dotage. I thank great Chaldan that I still have my vigor, and that my prowess is
undiminished by the passage of a mere fourscore years."
Garion drew off by himself to one side of the room to wrestle with a problem.
Events had swept him into King Korodullin's court before he had had the time to
prepare himself for an unpleasant duty. He had given his word to Lelldorin to
bring certain things to the king's attention, but he did not have the faintest
idea how to begin. The exaggerated formality of the Arendish court intimidated
him. This was not at all like the rough, good-natured court of King Anheg in Val
Alorn or the almost homey court of King Fulrach in Sendar. This was Vo Mimbre,
and the prospect of blurting out news of the wild scheme of a group of Asturian
firebrands as he had blurted out the news of the Earl of Jarvik in Cherek now
seemed utterly out of the question.
Suddenly the thought of that previous event struck him forcibly. The situation
then was so similar to this one that it seemed all at once like some elaborate
game. The moves on the board were almost identical, and in each case he had been
placed in the uncomfortable position of being required to block that last
crucial move where a king would die and a kingdom would collapse. He felt oddly
powerless, as if his entire life were in the fingers of two faceless players
maneuvering pieces in the same patterns on some vast board in a game that, for
all he knew, had lasted for eternity. There was no question about what had to be
done. The players, however, seemed content to leave it up to him to come up with
a way to do it.
King Korodullin appeared shaken when he returned to the throne room with Mister
Wolf a half hour later, and he controlled his expression with obvious
difficulty. "Forgive me, gentles all," he apologized, "but I have had disturbing
news. For the present time, however, let us put aside our cares and celebrate
this historic visit. Summon musicians and command that a banquet be made ready."
There was a stir near the door, and a black-robed man entered with a half dozen
Mimbrate knights in full armor following him closely, their eyes narrow with
suspicion and their hands on their sword hilts as if daring anyone to bar their
leader's path. As the robed man strode nearer, Garion saw his angular eyes and
scarred cheeks. The man was a Murgo.
Barak put a firm hand on Hettar's arm.
The Murgo had obviously dressed in haste and he seemed slightly breathless from
his burned trip to the throne room. "Your Majesty," he rasped, bowing deeply to
Korodullin, "I have just been advised that visitors have arrived at thy court
and have made haste here to greet them in the name of my king, Taur Urgas."
Korodullin's face grew cold. "I do not recall summoning thee, Nachak," he said.
"It is, then, as I had feared," the Murgo replied. "These messengers have spoken
ill of my race, seeking to dissever the friendship which loth exist between the
thrones of Arendia and of Cthol Murgos. I am chagrined to find that thou bast
given ear to slanders without offering me opportunity to reply. Is this just,
august Majesty?"
"Who is this?" Mister Wolf asked Korodullin.
"Nachak," the king replied, "the ambassador of Cthol Murgos. Shall I introduce
thee to him, Ancient One?"
"That won't be necessary," Mister Wolf answered bleakly. "Every Murgo alive
knows who I am. Mothers in Cthol Murgos frighten their children into obedience
by mentioning my name."
"But I am not a child, old man," Nachak sneered. "I'm not afraid of you."
"That could be a serious failing," Silk observed.
The Murgo's name had struck Garion almost like a blow. As he looked at the
scarred face of the man who had so misled Lelldorin and his friends, he realized
that the players had once again moved their pieces into that last crucial
position, and that who would win and who would lose once again depended entirely
on him.
"What lies have you told the king?" Nachak was demanding of Mister Wolf.
"No lies, Nachak," Wolf told him. "Just the truth. That should be enough."
"I protest, your Majesty," Nachak appealed to the king. "I protest in the
strongest manner possible. All the world knows of his hatred for my people. How
can you allow him to poison your mind against us?"
"He forgot the thees and thous that time," Silk commented slyly.
"He's excited," Barak replied. "Murgos get clumsy when they're excited. It's one
of their shortcomings."
"Alorns!" Nachak spat.
"That's right, Murgo," Barak said coldly. He was still holding Hettar's arm.
Nachak looked at them, and then his eyes widened as he seemed to see Hettar for
the first time. He recoiled from the Algar's hate-filled stare, and his half
dozen knights closed protectively around him. "Your Majesty," he rasped, "I know
that man to be Hettar of Algaria, a known murderer. I demand that you arrest
him."
"Demand, Nachak?" the king asked with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Thou wilt
present demands to me in my own court?"
"Forgive me, your Majesty," Nachak apologized quickly. "The sight of that animal
so disturbed me that I forgot myself."
"You'd be wise to leave now, Nachak," Mister Wolf recommended. "It's not really
a good idea for a Murgo to be alone in the presence of so many Alorns. Accidents
have a way of happening under such conditions."
"Grandfather," Garion said urgently. Without knowing exactly why, he knew that
it was time to speak. Nachak must not be allowed to leave the throne room. The
faceless players had made their final moves, and the game must end here.
"Grandfather," he repeated, "there's something I have to tell you."
"Not now, Garion." Wolf was still looking with hard eyes at the Murgo.
"It's important, grandfather. Very important."
Mister Wolf turned as if to reply sharply, but then he seemed to see something -
something that no one else in the throne room could see and his eyes widened in
momentary amazement. "All right, Garion," he said in a strangely quiet voice.
"Go ahead."
"Some men are planning to kill the king of Arendia. Nachak's one of them."
Garion had said it louder than he'd intended, and a sudden silence fell over the
throne room at his words.
Nachak's face went pale, and his hand moved involuntarily toward his sword hilt,
then froze. Garion was suddenly keenly aware of Barak hulking just behind him
and Hettar, grim as death in black leather towering beside him. Nachak stepped
back and made a quick gesture to his steel-clad knights. Quickly they formed a
protective ring around him, their hands on their weapons. "I won't stay and
listen to such slander," the Murgo declared.
"I have not yet given thee my permission to withdraw, Nachak," Korodullin
informed him coolly. "I require thy presence yet a while." The young king's face
was stern, and his eyes bored into the Murgo's. Then he turned to Garion. "I
would hear more of this. Speak truthfully, lad, and fear not reprisal from any
man for thy words."
Garion drew a deep breath and spoke carefully. "I don't really know all the
details, your Majesty," he explained. "I found out about it by accident."
"Say what thou canst," the king told him.
"As nearly as I can tell, your Majesty, next summer when you travel to Vo Astur,
a group of men are going to try to kill you somewhere on the highway."
"Asturian traitors, doubtless," a gray-haired courtier suggested.
"They call themselves patriots," Garion answered.
"Inevitably," the courtier sneered.
"Such attempts are not uncommon," the king stated. "We will take steps to guard
against them. I thank thee for this information."
"There's more, your Majesty," Garion added. "When they attack, they're going to
be wearing the uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires."
Silk whistled sharply.
"The whole idea is to make your nobles believe that you've been killed by the
Tolnedrans," Garion continued. "These men are sure that Mimbre will immediately
declare war on the Empire, and that as soon as that happens the legions will
march in. Then, when everybody here is involved in the war, they're going to
announce that Asturias no longer subject to the Arendish throne. They're sure
that the rest of Asturia will follow them at that point."
"I see," the king replied thoughtfully. "'This a well-conceived plan, but with a
subtlety uncharacteristic of our wild-eyed Asturian brothers. But I have yet
heard nothing linking the emissary of Taur Urgas with this treason."
"The whole plan was his, your Majesty. He gave them all the details and the gold
to buy the Tolnedran uniforms and to encourage other people to join them."
"He lies!" Nachak burst out.
"Thou shalt have opportunity to reply, Nachak," the king advised him. He turned
back to Garion. "Let us pursue this matter further. How camest thou by this
knowledge?"
"I can't say, your Majesty," Garion replied painfully. "I gave my word not to.
One of the men told me about it to prove that he was my friend. He put his life
in my hands to show how much he trusted me. I can't betray him."
"Thy loyalty speaks well of thee, young Garion," the king commended him, "but
thy accusation against the Murgo ambassador is most grave. Without violating thy
trust, canst thou provide corroboration?"
Helplessly, Garion shook his head.
"This is a serious matter, your Majesty," Nachak declared. "I am the personal
representative of Taur Urgas. This lying urchin is Belgarath's creature, and his
wild, unsubstantiated story is an obvious attempt to discredit me and to drive a
wedge between the thrones of Arendia and Cthol Murgos. This accusation must not
be allowed to stand. The boy must be forced to identify these imaginary plotters
or to admit that he lies."
"He hath given his pledge, Nachak," the king pointed out.
"He says so, your Majesty," Nachak replied with a sneer. "Let us put him to the
test. An hour on the rack may persuade him to speak freely."
"I've seldom had much faith in confessions obtained by torment," Korodullin
said.
"If it please your Majesty," Mandorallen interjected, "it may be that I can help
to resolve this matter."
Garion threw a stricken look at the knight. Mandorallen knew Lelldorin, and it
would be a simple thing for him to guess the truth. Mandorallen, moreover, was a
Mimbrate, and Korodullin was his king. Not only was he under no compulsion to
remain silent, but his duty almost obliged him to speak.
"Sir Mandorallen," the king responded gravely, "thy devotion to truth and duty
are legendary. Canst thou perchance identify these plotters?"
The question hung there.
"Nay, Sire," Mandorallen replied firmly, "but I know Garion to be a truthful and
honest boy. I will vouch for him."
"That's scanty corroboration," Nachak asserted. "I declare that he lies, so
where does that leave us?"
"The lad is my companion," Mandorallen said. "I will not be the instrument of
breaking his pledge, since his honor is as dear to me as mine own. By our law,
however, a cause incapable of proof may be decided by trial at arms. I will
champion this boy. I declare before this company that this Nachak is a foul
villain who hath joined with diverse others to slay my king." He pulled off his
steel gauntlet and tossed it to the floor. The crash as it struck the polished
stone seemed thunderous. "Take up my gage, Murgo," Mandorallen said coldly, "or
let one of thy sycophant knights take it up for thee. I will prove thy villainy
upon thy body or upon the body of thy champion."
Nachak stared first at the mailed gauntlet and then at the great knight standing
accusingly before him. He licked his lips nervously and looked around the throne
room. Except for Mandorallen, none of the Mimbrate nobles present were under
arms. The Murgo's eyes narrowed with a sudden desperation. "Kill him!" he
snarled at the six men in armor surrounding him.
The knights looked shocked, doubtful.
"Kill him!" Nachak commanded them. "A thousand gold pieces to the man who spills
out his life!"
The faces of the six knights went flat at his words. As one man they drew their
swords and spread out, moving with raised shields toward Mandorallen. There were
gasps and cries of alarm as the nobles and their ladies scrambled out of the
way.
"What treason is this?" Mandorallen demanded of them. "Are ye so enamored of
this Murgo and his gold that ye will draw weapons in the king's presence in open
defiance of the law's prohibitions? Put up your swords."
But they ignored his words and continued their grim advance.
"Defend thyself, Sir Mandorallen," Korodullin urged, half rising from his
throne. "I free thee of the law's constraint."
Barak, however, had already begun to move. Noting that Mandorallen had not
carried his shield into the throne room, the red-bearded man jerked an enormous
two-handed broadsword down from the array of banners and weapons at one side of
the dais. "Mandorallen!" he shouted and with a great heave he slid the huge
blade skittering and bouncing across the stone floor toward the knight's feet.
Mandorallen stopped the sliding weapon with one mailed foot, stooped, and picked
it up.
The approaching knights looked a bit less confident as Mandorallen lifted the
six-foot blade with both hands.
Barak, grinning hugely, drew his sword from one hip and his war axe from the
other. Hettar, his drawn sabre held low, was circling the clumsy knights on
catlike feet. Without thinking, Garion reached for his own sword, but Mister
Wolf's hand closed on his wrist. "You stay out of it," the old man told him and
pulled him clear of the impending fight.
Mandorallen's first blow crashed against a quickly raised shield, shattering the
arm of a knight with a crimson surcoat over his armor and hurling him into a
clattering heap ten feet away. Barak parried a sword stroke from a burly knight
with his axe and battered at the man's raised shield with his own heavy sword.
Hettar toyed expertly with a knight in green-enameled armor, easily avoiding his
opponent's awkward strokes and flicking the point of his sabre at the man's
visored face.
The steely ring of sword on sword echoed through Korodullin's throne room, and
showers of sparks cascaded from the clash of edge against edge. With huge blows,
Mandorallen smashed at a second man. A vast sweep of his two-handed sword went
under the knight's shield, and the man shrieked as the great blade bit through
his armor and into his side. Then he fell with blood spouting from the
sheared-in gash that reached halfway through his body.
Barak, with a deft backswing of his war axe, caved in the side of the burly
knight's helmet, and the knight half spun and fell to the floor. Hettar feinted
a quick move, then drove his sabre point through a slot in the green-armored
knight's visor. The stricken knight stiffened as the sabre ran into his brain.
As the melee surged across the polished floor, the nobles and ladies scurried
this way and that to avoid being overrun by the struggling men. Nachak watched
with dismay as his knights were systematically destroyed before his eyes. Then,
quite suddenly he turned and fled.
"He's getting away!" Garion shouted, but Hettar was already in pursuit, his
dreadful face and blood-smeared sabre melting the courtiers and their screaming
ladies out of his path as he ran to cut off Nachak's flight. The Murgo had
almost reached the far end of the hall before Hettar's long strides carried him
through the crowd to block the doorway. With a cry of despair, the ambassador
yanked his sword from its scabbard, and Garion felt a strange, momentary pity
for him.
As the Murgo raised his sword, Hettar flicked his sabre almost like a whip,
lashing him once on each shoulder. Nachak desperately tried to raise his numbed
arms to protect his head, but Hettar's blade dropped low instead. Then, with a
peculiar fluid grace, the grim-faced Algar quite deliberately ran the Murgo
through. Garion saw the sabre blade come out between Nachak's shoulders, angling
sharply upward. The ambassador gasped, dropped his sword and gripped Hettar's
wrist with both hands, but the hawk-faced man inexorably turned his hand,
twisting the sharp, curved blade inside the Murgo's body. Nachak groaned and
shuddered horribly. Then his hands slipped off Hettar's wrist and his legs
buckled under him. With a gurgling sigh, he toppled backward, sliding limply off
Hettar's blade.
Chapter Eleven
A MOMENT OF DREADFUL SILENCE filled the throne room following the death of
Nachak. Then the two members of his bodyguard who were still on their feet threw
their weapons down on the bloodspattered floor with a sudden clatter.
Mandorallen raised his visor and turned toward the throne. "Sire," he said
respectfully, "the treachery of Nachak stands proved by reason of this trial at
arms:"
"Truly," the king agreed. "My only regret is that thy enthusiasm in pursuing
this cause hath deprived us of the opportunity to probe more deeply into the
full extent of Nachak's duplicity."
"I expect that the plots he hatched will dry up once word of what happened here
gets around," Mister Wolf observed.
"Perhaps so," the king acknowledged. "I would have pursued the matter further,
however. I would know if this villainy was Nachak's own or if I must look beyond
him to Taur Urgas himself." He frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head as if
to put certain dark speculations aside. "Arendia stands in thy debt, Ancient
Belgarath. This brave company of throe hath forestalled the renewal of a war
best forgotten." He looked sadly at the blood-smeared floor and the bodies
littering it. "My throne room hath become as a battlefield. The curse of Arendia
extends even here." He sighed. "Have it cleansed," he ordered shortly and turned
his head so that he would not have to watch the grim business of cleaning up.
The nobles and ladies began to buzz as the dead were removed and the polished
stone floor was quickly mopped to remove the pools of sticky blood.
"Good fight," Barak commented as he carefully wiped his axe blade.
"I am in thy debt, Lord Barak," Mandorallen said gravely. "Thy aid was
fortuitous."
Barak shrugged. "It seemed appropriate."
Hettar rejoined them, his expression one of grim satisfaction.
"You did a nice job on Nachak," Barak complimented him.
"I've had a lot of practice," Hettar answered. "Murgos always seem to make that
same mistake when they get into a fight. I think there's a gap in their training
somewhere."
"That's a shame, isn't it?" Barak suggested with vast insincerity.
Garion moved away from them. Although he knew it was irrational, he nevertheless
felt a keen sense of personal responsibility for the carnage he had just
witnessed. The blood and violent death had come about as the result of his
words. Had he not spoken, men who were now dead would still be alive. No matter
how justified -how necessary - his speaking out had been, he still suffered the
pangs of guilt. He did not at the moment trust himself to speak with his
friends. More than anything he wished that he could talk with Aunt Pol, but she
had not yet returned to the throne room, and so he was left to wrestle alone
with his wounded conscience.
He reached one of the embrasures formed by the buttresses along the south wall
of the throne room and stood alone in somber reflection until a girl, perhaps
two years older than he, glided across the floor toward him, her stiff, crimson
brocade gown rustling. The girl's hair was dark, even black, and her skin was
creamy. Her bodice was cut quite low, and Garion found some difficulty in
finding a safe place for his eyes as she bore down on him.
"I would add my thanks to the thanks of all Arendia, Lord Garion," she breathed
at him. Her voice was vibrant with all kinds of emotions, none of which Garion
understood. "Thy timely revelation of the Murgo's plotting hath in truth saved
the life of our sovereign."
Garion felt a certain warmth at that. "I didn't do all that much, my lady," he
replied with a somewhat insincere attempt at modesty. "My friends did all the
fighting."
"But it was thy brave denunciation which uncovered the foul plot," she
persisted, "and virgins will sing of the nobility with which thou protected the
identity of thy nameless and misguided friend."
Virgin was not a word with which Garion was prepared to deal. He blushed and
floundered helplessly.
"Art thou in truth, noble Garion, the grandson of Eternal Belgarath?"
"The relationship is a bit more distant. We simplify it for the sake of
convenience."
"But thou art in his direct line?" she persisted, her violet eyes glowing.
"He tells me I am."
"Is the Lady Polgara perchance thy mother?"
"My aunt."
"A close kinship nonetheless," she approved warmly, her hand coming to rest
lightly on his wrist. "Thy blood, Lord Garion, is the noblest in the world. Tell
me, art thou perchance as yet unbetrothed?"
Garion blinked at her, his ears growing suddenly redder.
"Ah, Garion," Mandorallen boomed in his hearty voice, striding into the awkward
moment, "I had been seeking thee. Wilt thou excuse us, Countess?"
The young lady shot Mandorallen a look filled with sheer venom, but the knight's
firm hand was already drawing Garion away.
"We will speak again, Lord Garion," she called after him.
"I hope so, my Lady," Garion replied back over his shoulder. Then he and
Mandorallen merged with the crowd of courtiers near the center of the throne
room.
"I wanted to thank you, Mandorallen," Garion said finally, struggling with it a
little.
"For what, lad?"
"You knew whom I was protecting when I told the King about Nachak, didn't you?"
"Naturally," the knight replied in a rather offhand way.
"You could have told the king,- actually it was your duty to tell him, wasn't
it?"
"But thou hadst given thy pledge."
"You hadn't, though."
"Thou art my companion, lad. Thy pledge is as binding upon me as it is upon
thee. Didst thou not know that?"
Garion was startled by Mandorallen's words. The exquisite involvement of
Arendish ethics were beyond his grasp. "So you fought for me instead."
Mandorallen laughed easily. "Of course," he answered, "though I must confess to
thee in all honesty, Garion, that my eagerness to stand as thy champion grew not
entirely out of friendship. In truth I found the Murgo Nachak offensive and
liked not the cold arrogance of his hirelings. I was inclined toward battle
before thy need of championing presented itself. Perhaps it is I who should
thank thee for providing the opportunity."
"I don't understand you at all, Mandorallen," Garion admitted. "Sometimes I
think you're the most complicated man I've ever met."
"I?" Mandorallen seemed amazed. "I am the simplest of men." He looked around
then and leaned slightly toward Garion. "I must advise thee to have a care in
thy speech with the Countess Vasrana," he warned. "It was that which impelled me
to draw thee aside."
"Who?"
"The comely young lady with whom thou wert speaking. She considers herself the
greatest beauty in the kingdom and is seeking a husband worthy of her."
"Husband?" Garion responded in a faltering voice.
"Thou art fair game, lad. Thy blood is noble beyond measure by reason of thy
kinship to Belgarath. Thou wouldst be a great prize for the countess."
"Husband?" Garion quavered at.in, his knees beginning to tremble. "Me?"
"I know not how things stand in misty Sendaria," Mandorallen declared, "but in
Arendia thou art of marriageable age. Guard well thy speech, lad. The most
innocent remark can be viewed as a promise, should a noble choose to take it
so."
Garion swallowed hard and looked around apprehensively. After that he did his
best to hide. His nerves, he felt, were not up to any more shocks.
The Countess Vasrana, however, proved to be a skilled huntress. With appalling
determination she tracked him down and pinned him in another embrasure with
smoldering eyes and heaving bosom. "Now perchance we may continue our most
interesting discussion, Lord Garion," she purred at him.
Garion was considering flight when Aunt Pol, accompanied by a now radiant Queen
Mayaserana, reentered the throne room. Mandorallen spoke briefly to her, and she
immediately crossed to the spot where the violet-eyed countess held Garion
captive.
"Garion, dear," she said as she approached. "It's time for your medicine."
"Medicine?" he replied, confused.
"A most forgetful boy," she told the countess. "Probably it was all the
excitement, but he knows that if he doesn't take the potion every three hours,
the madness will return."
"Madness?" the Countess Vasrana repeated sharply.
"The curse of his family," Aunt Pol sighed. "They all have it-all the male
children. The potion works for a while, but of course it's only temporary. We'll
have to find some patient and self sacrificing lady soon, so that he can marry
and father children before his brains begin to soften. After that his poor wife
will be doomed to spend the rest of her days caring for him." She looked
critically at the young countess. "I wonder," she said. "Could it be possible
that you are as yet unbetrothed? You appear to be of a suitable age." She
reached out and briefly took hold of Vasrana's rounded arm. "Nice and strong,"
she said approvingly. "I'll speak to my father, Lord Belgarath, about this
immediately."
The countess began to back away, her eyes wide.
"Come back," Aunt Pol told her. "His fits won't start for several minutes yet."
The girl fled.
"Can't you ever stay out of trouble?" Aunt Pol demanded of Garion, leading him
firmly away.
"But I didn't say anything," he objected.
Mandorallen joined them, grinning broadly. "I perceive that thou hast routed our
predatory countess, my Lady. I should have thought she would prove more
persistent."
"I gave her something to worry about. It dampened her enthusiasm for matrimony."
"What matter didst thou discuss with our queen?" he asked. "I have not seen her
smile so in years."
"Mayaserana's had a problem of a female nature. I don't think you'd understand."
"Her inability to carry a child to term?"
"Don't Arends have anything better to do than gossip about things that don't
concern them? Why don't you go find another fight instead of asking intimate
questions?"
"The matter is of great concern to us all, my Lady," Mandorallen apologized. "If
our queen does not produce an heir to the throne, we stand in danger of dynastic
war. All Arendia could go up in flames."
"There aren't going to be any flames, Mandorallen. Fortunately I arrived in time
- though it was very close. You'll have a crown prince before winter."
"Is it possible?"
"Would you like all the details?" she asked pointedly. "I've noticed that men
usually prefer not to know about the exact mechanics involved in childbearing."
Mandorallen's face slowly flushed. "I will accept thy assurances, Lady Polgara,"
he replied quickly.
"I'm so glad."
"I must inform the king," he declared.
"You must mind your own business, Sir Mandorallen. The queen will tell
Korodullin what he needs to know. Why don't you go clean off your armor? You
look as if you just walked through a slaughterhouse."
He bowed, still blushing, and moved away.
"Men!" she said to his retreating back. Then she turned back to Garion. "I hear
that you've been busy."
"I had to warn the king," he replied.
"You seem to have an absolute genius for getting mixed up in this sort of thing.
Why didn't you tell me - or your grandfather."
"I promised that I wouldn't say anything."
"Garion," she said firmly, "under our present circumstances, secrets are very
dangerous. You knew that what Lelldorin told you was important, didn't you?"
"I didn't say it was Lelldorin."
She gave him a withering look. "Garion, dear," she told him bluntly, "don't ever
make the mistake of thinking that I'm stupid."
"I didn't," he floundered. "I wasn't. I - Aunt Pol, I gave them my word that I
wouldn't tell anybody."
She sighed. "We've got to get you out of Arendia," she declared. "The place
seems to be affecting your good sense. The next time you feel the urge to make
one of these startling public announcements, talk it over with me first, all
right?"
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled, embarrassed.
"Oh, Garion, what am I ever going to do with you?" Then she laughed fondly and
put her arm about his shoulder and everything was all right again.
The evening passed uneventfully after that. The banquet was tedious, and the
toasts afterward interminable as each Arendish noble arose in turn to salute
Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol with flowery and formal speeches. They went to bed
late, and Garion slept fitfully, troubled by nightmares of the hot-eyed countess
pursuing him through endless, flower-strewn corridors.
They were up early the next morning, and after breakfast Aunt Pol and Mister
Wolf spoke privately with the king and queen again. Garion, still nervous about
his encounter with the Countess Vasrana, stayed close to Mandorallen. The
Mimbrate knight seemed best equipped to help him avoid any more such adventures.
They waited in an antechamber to the throne room, and Mandorallen in his blue
surcoat explained at length an intricate tapestry which covered one entire wall.
About midmorning Sir Andorig, the dark-haired knight Mister Wolf had ordered to
spend his days caring for the tree in the plaza, came looking for Mandorallen.
"Sir Knight," he said respectfully, "the Baron of Vo Ebor hath arrived from the
north accompanied by his lady. They have asked after thee and besought me that I
should seek thee out for them."
"Thou art most kind, Sir Andorig," Mandorallen replied, rising quickly from the
bench where he had been sitting. "Thy courtesy becomes thee greatly."
Andorig sighed. "Alas that it was not always so. I have this past night stood
vigil before that miraculous tree which Holy Belgarath commended to my care. I
thus had leisure to consider my life in retrospect. I have not been an admirable
man. Bitterly I repent my faults and will strive earnestly for amendment."
Wordlessly, Mandorallen clasped the knight's hand and then followed him down a
long hallway to a room where the visitors waited.
It was not until they entered the sunlit room that Garion remembered that the
wife of the Baron of Vo Ebor was the lady to whom Mandorallen had spoken on that
windswept hill beside the Great West Road some days before.
The baron was a solid-looking man in a green surcoat, and his hair and beard
were touched with white. His eyes were deep-set, and there seemed to be a great
sadness in them. "Mandorallen," he said, warmly embracing the younger knight.
"Thou art unkind to absent thyself from us for so long."
"Duty, my Lord," Mandorallen replied in a subdued voice. "Come, Nerina," the
baron told his wife, "greet our friend."
The Baroness Nerina was much younger than her husband. Her hair was dark and
very long. She wore a rose-colored gown, and she was beautiful-though, Garion
thought, no more so than any of a half dozen others he had seen at the Arendish
court.
"Dear Mandorallen," she said, kissing the knight with a brief, chaste embrace,
"we have missed thee at Vo Ebor."
"And the world is desolate for me that I must be absent from its wellloved
halls."
Sir Andorig had bowed and then discreetly departed, leaving Garion standing
awkwardly near the door.
"And who is this likely-appearing lad who accompanies thee, my son?" the baron
asked.
"A Sendarian boy," Mandorallen responded. "His name is Garion. He and diverse
others have joined with me in a perilous quest."
"Joyfully I greet my son's companion," the baron declared.
Garion bowed, but his mind raced, attempting to find some legitimate excuse to
leave. The situation was terribly embarrassing, and he did not want to stay.
"I must wait upon the king," the baron announced. "Custom and courtesy demand
that I present myself to him as soon as possible upon my arrival at his court.
Wilt thou, Mandorallen, remain here with my baroness until I return?"
"I will, my Lord."
"I'll take you to where the king is meeting with my aunt and my grandfather,
sir," Garion offered quickly.
"Nay, lad," the baron demurred. "Thou too must remain. Though I have no cause
for anxiety, knowing full well the fidelity of my wife and my dearest friend,
idle tongues would make scandal were they left together unattended. Prudent folk
leave no possible foundation for false rumor and vile innuendo."
"I'll stay then, sir," Garion replied quickly.
"Good lad," the baron approved. Then, with eyes that seemed somehow haunted, he
quietly left the room.
"Wilt thou sit, my Lady?" Mandorallen asked Nerina, pointing to a sculptured
bench near a window.
"I will," she said. "Our journey was fatiguing."
"It is a long way from Vo Ebor," Mandorallen agreed, sitting on another bench.
"Didst thou and my Lord find the roads passable?"
"Perhaps not yet so dry as to make travel enjoyable," she told him. They spoke
at some length about roads and weather, sitting not far from each other, but not
so close that anyone chancing to pass by the open door could have mistaken their
conversation for anything less than innocent. Their eyes, however, spoke more
intimately. Garion, painfully embarrassed, stood looking out a window, carefully
choosing one that kept him in full view of the door.
As the conversation progressed, there were increasingly long pauses, and Garion
cringed inwardly at each agonizing silence, afraid that either Mandorallen or
the Lady Nerina might in the extremity of their hopeless love cross that
unspoken boundary and blurt the one word, phrase, or sentence which would cause
restraint and honor to crumble and turn their lives into disaster. And yet a
certain part of his mind wished that the word or phrase or sentence might be
spoken and that their love could flame, however briefly.
It was there, in that quiet sunlit chamber, that Garion passed a small
crossroad. The prejudice against Mandorailen that Lelldorin's unthinking
partisanship had instilled in him finally shattered and fell away. He felt a
surge of feelings - not pity, for they would not have accepted pity, but
compassion rather. More than that, there was the faint beginning of an
understanding of the honor and towering pride which, though utterly selfless,
was the foundation of that tragedy which had existed in Arendia for uncounted
centuries.
For perhaps a half hour more Mandorallen and the Lady Nerina sat, speaking
hardly at all now, their eyes lost in each other's faces while Garion, near to
tears, stood his enforced watch over them. And then Durnik came to tell them
that Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf were getting ready to leave.
PART TWO
TOLNEDRA
Chapter Twelve
A BRASSY CHORUS OF HORNS saluted them from the battlements of Vo Mimbre as they
rode out of the city accompanied by twoscore armored knights and by King
Korodullin himself. Garion glanced back once and thought he saw the Lady Nerina
standing upon the wall above the arched gate, though he could not be sure. The
lady did not wave, and Mandorallen did not look back. Garion, however, very
nearly held his breath until Vo Mimbre was out of sight.
It was midafternoon by the time they reached the ford which crossed the River
Arend into Tolnedra, and the bright sun sparkled on the river. The sky was very
blue overhead, and the colored pennons on the lances of the escorting knights
snapped in the breeze. Garion felt a desperate urgency, an almost unbearable
necessity to cross the river and to leave Arendia and the terrible things that
had happened there behind.
"Hail and farewell, Holy Belgarath," Korodullin said at the water's edge. "I
will, as thou hast advised me, begin my preparations. Arendia will be ready. I
pledge my life to it."
"And I'll keep you advised of our progress from time to time," Mister Wolf said.
"I will also examine the activities of the Murgos within my kingdom," Korodullin
said. "If what thou hast told me should prove true, as I doubt not that it
shall, then I will expell them from Arendia. I will seek them out, one and all,
and harry them out of the land. I will make their lives a burden and an
affliction to them for sowing discord and contention among my subjects."
Wolf grinned at him. "That's an idea that appeals to me. Murgos are an arrogant
people, and a little affliction now and then teaches them humility." He reached
out and took the king's hand. "Good-bye, Korodullin. I hope the world's happier
next time we meet."
"I will pray that it may be so," the young king said.
Then Mister Wolf led the way down into the rippling water of the shallow ford.
Beyond the river Imperial Tolnedra waited, and from the banks behind them the
Mimbrate knights saluted with a great fanfare on their horns.
As they emerged on the far side of the river, Garion looked around, trying to
see some difference in terrain or foliage which might distinguish Arendia from
Tolnedra, but there seemed to be none. The land, indifferent to human
boundaries, flowed on unchanged.
About a half mile from the river they entered the forest of Vordue, an extensive
tract of well-kept woodland which extended from the sea to the foothills of the
mountains to the east. Once they were under the trees, they stopped and changed
back into their traveling clothes.
"I think we might as well keep the guise of merchants," Mister Wolf said,
settling with obvious comfort back into his patched rust-colored tunic and
mismatched shoes. "It won't fool the Grolims, of course, but it will satisfy the
Tolnedrans we meet along the way. We can deal with the Grolims in other ways."
"Are there any signs of the Orb about?" Barak rumbled as he stowed his bearskin
cloak and helmet in one of the packs.
"A hint or two," Wolf said, looking around. "I'd guess that Zedar went through
here a few weeks ago."
"We don't seem to be gaining on him much," Silk said, pulling on his leather
vest.
"We're holding our own at least. Shall we go?"
They remounted and continued along the Tolnedran highway, which ran straight
through the forest in the afternoon sun. After a league or so, they came to a
wide place in the road where a single whitewashed stone building, low and
red-roofed, stood solidly at the roadside. Several soldiers lounged indolently
about, but their armor and equipment seemed less well-cared-for than that of the
legionnaires Garion had seen before.
"Customs station," Silk said. "Tolnedrans like to put them far enough from the
border so that they don't interfere with legitimate smuggling."
"Those are very slovenly legionnaires," Durnik said disapprovingly.
"They aren't legionnaires," Silk explained. "They're soldiers of the customs
service-local troops. There's a great difference."
"I can see that," Durnik said.
A soldier wearing a rusty breastplate and carrying a short spear stepped into
the road and held up his hand. "Customs inspection," he announced in a bored
tone. "His excellency will be with you in a moment or two. You can take your
horses over there." He pointed to a kind of yard at the side of the building.
"Is trouble likely?" Mandorallen asked. The knight had removed his armor and now
wore the mail suit and surcoat in which he customarily traveled.
"No," Silk said. "The customs agent will ask a few questions, and then we'll
bribe him and be on our way."
"Bribe?" Durnik asked.
Silk shrugged. "Of course. That's the way things are in Tolnedra. Better let me
do the talking. I've been through all this before."
The customs agent, a stout, balding man in a belted gown of a rusty brown color,
came out of the stone building, brushing crumbs from the front of his clothes.
"Good afternoon," he said in a businesslike manner.
"Good day, your Excellency," Silk replied with a brief bow.
"And what have we here?" the agent asked, looking appraisingly at the packs.
"I'm Radek of Boktor," Silk replied, "a Drasnian merchant. I'm taking Sendarian
wool to Tol Honeth." He opened the top of one of the packs and pulled out a
corner of woven gray cloth.
"Your prospects are good, worthy merchant," the customs agent said, fingering
the cloth. "It's been a chilly winter this year, and wool's bringing a good
price."
There was a brief clicking sound as several coins changed hands. The customs
agent smiled then, and his manner grew more relaxed. "I don't think we'll need
to open all the packs," he said. "You're obviously an honorable man, worthy
Radek, and I wouldn't want to delay you."
Silk bowed again. "Is there anything I should know about the road ahead, your
Excellency?" he asked, tying up the pack again. "I've learned to rely on the
advice of the customs service."
"The road's good," the agent said with a shrug. "The legions see to that."
"Of course. Any unusual conditions anywhere?"
"It might be wise if you kept somewhat to yourselves on your way south," the
stout man advised. "There's a certain amount of political turmoil in Tolnedra
just now. I'm sure, though, that if you show that you're tending strictly to
business, you won't be bothered."
"Turmoil?" Silk asked, sounding a bit concerned. "I hadn't heard about that."
"It's the succession. Things are a bit stirred up at the moment."
"Is Ran Borune ill?" Silk asked with surprise.
"No," the stout man said, "only old. It's a disease no one recovers from. Since
he doesn't have a son to succeed him, the Borune Dynasty hangs on his feeblest
breath. The great families are already maneuvering for position. It's all
terribly expensive of course, and we Tolnedrans get agitated when there's money
involved."
Silk laughed briefly. "Don't we all? Perhaps it might be to my advantage to make
a few contacts in the right quarters. Which family would you guess is in the
best position at the moment?"
"I think we have the edge over the rest of them," the agent said rather smugly.
"We-"
"The Vorduvians. I'm distantly related on my mother's side to the family. The
Grand Duke Kador of Tol Vordue's the only logical choice for the throne."
"I don't believe I know him," Silk said.
"An excellent man," the agent said expansively. "A man of force and vigor and
foresight. If the selection were based on simple merit, Grand Duke Kador would
be given the throne by general consent. Unfortunately, though, the selection's
in the hands of the Council of Advisers."
"Ah!"
"Indeed," the agent agreed bitterly. "You wouldn't believe the size of the
bribes some of those men are asking for their votes, worthy Radek."
"It's an opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime, I suppose," Silk said.
"I don't begrudge any man the right to a decent, reasonable bribe," the stout
agent complained, "but some of the men on the council have gone mad with greed.
No matter what position I get in the new government, it's going to take me years
to recoup what I've already been obliged to contribute. It's the same all over
Tolnedra. Decent men are being driven to the wall by taxes and all these
emergency subscriptions. You don't dare let a list go by that doesn't have your
name on it, and there's a new list out every day. The expense is making everyone
desperate. They're killing each other in the streets of Tol Honeth."
"That bad?" Silk asked.
"Worse than you can imagine," the customs man said. "The Horbites don't have the
kind of money it takes to conduct a political campaign, so they've started to
poison off council members. We spend millions to buy a vote, and the next day
our man turns black in the face and falls over dead. Then we have to raise more
millions to buy up his successor. They're absolutely destroying me. I don't have
the right kind of nerves for politics."
"Terrible," Silk sympathized.
"If Ran Borune would only die, " the Tolnedran complained desperately. "We're in
control now, but the Honeths are richer than we are. If they unite behind one
candidate, they'll be able to buy the throne right out from under us. And all
the while Ran Borune sits in the palace doting on that little monster he calls a
daughter and with so many guards around that we can't persuade even the bravest
assassin to make an attempt on him. Sometimes I think he intends to live
forever."
"Patience, Excellency," Silk advised. "The more we suffer, the greater the
rewards in the end."
The Tolnedran sighed. "I'll be very rich someday then. But I've kept you long
enough, worthy Radek. I wish you good speed and cold weather in Tol Honeth to
bring up the price of your wool."
Silk bowed formally, remounted his horse and led the party at a trot away from
the customs station. "It's good to be back in Tolnedra again," the weasel-faced
little man said expansively once they were out of earshot. "I love the smell of
deceit, corruption, and intrigue."
"You're a bad man, Silk," Barak said. "This place is a cesspool."
"Of course it is." Silk laughed. "But it isn't dull, Barak. Tolnedra's never
dull."
They approached a tidy Tolnedran village as evening fell and stopped for the
night in a solid, well-kept inn where the food was good and the beds were clean.
They were up early the next morning; after breakfast they clattered out of the
innyard and onto the cobblestoned street in that curious silver light that comes
just before the sun rises.
"A proper sort of place," Durnik said approvingly, looking around at the white
stone houses with their red-tiled roofs. "Everything seems neat and orderly."
"It's a reflection of the Tolnedran mind," Mister Wolf explained. "They pay
great attention to details."
"That's not an unseemly trait," Durnik observed.
Wolf was about to answer that when two brown-robed men ran out of a shadowy side
street.
"Look out!" the one in the rear yelled. "He's gone mad!"
The man running in front was clutching at his head, his face contorted into an
expression of unspeakable horror. Garion's horse shied violently as the madman
ran directly at him, and Garion raised his right hand to try to push the
bulging-eyed lunatic away. At the instant his hand touched the man's forehead,
he felt a surge in his hand and arm, a kind of tingling as if the arm were
suddenly enormously strong, and his mind filled with a vast roaring. The
madman's eyes went blank, and he collapsed on the cobblestones as if Garion's
touch had been some colossal blow.
Then Barak nudged his horse between Garion and the fallen man.
"What's this all about?" he demanded of the second robed man who ran up, gasping
for breath.
"We're from Mar Terrin," the man answered. "Brother Obor couldn't stand the
ghosts anymore, so I was given permission to bring him home until his sanity
returned." He knelt over the fallen man. "You didn't have to hit him so hard,"
he accused.
"I didn't," Garion protested. "I only touched him. I think he fainted."
"You must have hit him," the monk said. "Look at the mark on his face."
An ugly red welt stood on the unconscious man's forehead.
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "can you do exactly what I tell you to do without
asking any questions?"
Garion nodded. "I think so."
"Get down off your horse. Go to the man on the ground and put the palm of your
hand on his forehead. Then apologize to him for knocking him down."
"Are you sure it's safe, Polgara?" Barak asked.
"It will be all right. Do as I told you, Garion."
Garion hesitantly approached the stricken man, reached out, and laid his palm on
the ugly welt. "I'm sorry," he said, "and I hope you get well soon." There was a
surge in his arm again, but quite different from the first one.
The madman's eyes cleared, and he blinked.
"Where am I?" he asked. "What happened?" His voice sounded very normal, and the
welt on his forehead was gone.
"It's all right now," Garion told him, not knowing exactly why he said it.
"You've been sick, but you're better now."
"Come along, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "His friend can care for him now."
Garion went back to his horse, his thoughts churning.
"A miracle!" the second monk exclaimed.
"Hardly that," Aunt Pol said. "The blow restored your friend's mind, that's all.
It happens sometimes." But she and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance that said
quite plainly that something else had happened, something unexpected.
They rode on, leaving the two monks in the middle of the street.
"What happened?" Durnik asked, a stunned look on his face.
Mister Wolf shrugged. "Polgara had to use Garion," he said. "There wasn't time
to do it any other way."
Durnik looked unconvinced.
"We don't do it often," Wolf explained. "It's a little cumbersome to go through
someone else like that, but sometimes we don't have any choice."
"But Garion healed him," Durnik objected.
"It has to come from the same hand as the blow, Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "Please
don't ask so many questions."
The dry awareness in Garion's mind, however, refused to accept any of their
explanations. It told him that nothing had come from outside. With a troubled
face he studied the silvery mark on his palm. It seemed different for some
reason.
"Don't think about it, dear," Aunt Pol said quietly as they left the village and
rode south along the highway. "It's nothing to worry about. I'll explain it all
later." Then, to the caroling of birds that greeted the rising sun, she reached
across and firmly closed his hand with her fingers.
Chapter Thirteen
IT TOOK THEM THREE DAYS to pass through the forest of Vordue. Garion,
remembering the dangers of the Arendish forest, was apprehensive at first and
watched the shadows beneath the trees nervously, but after a day or so with
nothing out of the ordinary occurring, he began to relax. Mister Wolf, however,
seemed to grow increasingly irritable as they rode south. "They're planning
something," he muttered. "I wish they'd get on with it. I hate to ride with one
eye over my shoulder every step of the way."
Garion had little opportunity along the way to speak with Aunt Pol about what
had happened to the crazy monk from Mar Terrin. It seemed almost as if she were
deliberately avoiding him; when he finally did manage to ride briefly beside her
and question her about the incident, her answers were vague and did little to
quiet his unease about the whole affair.
It was the middle of the morning on the third day when they emerged from the
trees and rode out into open farmland. Unlike the Arendish plain where vast
tracts of land seemed to lie fallow, the ground here was extensively cultivated,
and low stone walls surrounded each field. Although it was still far from being
warm, the sun was very bright, and the well-turned earth in the fields seemed
rich and black as it lay waiting for sowing. The highway was broad and straight,
and they encountered frequent travelers along the way. Greetings between the
party and these travelers were restrained but polite, and Garion began to feel
more at ease. This country appeared to be much too civilized for the kind of
dangers they had encountered in Arendia.
About midafternoon they rode into a sizable town where merchants in variously
colored mantles called to them from booths and stalls which lined the streets,
imploring them to stop and look at merchandise.
"They sound almost desperate," Durnik said.
"Tolnedrans hate to see a customer get away," Silk told him. "They're greedy."
Ahead, in a small square, a disturbance suddenly broke out. A half dozen
slovenly, unshaven soldiers had accosted an arrogant-looking man in a green
mantle.
"Stand aside, I say," the arrogant man protested sharply.
"We just want a word or two with you, Lembor," one of the.soldiers said with an
evil-looking leer. He was a lean man with a long scar down one side of his face.
"What an idiot," a passer-by observed with a callous laugh. "Lembor's gotten so
important that he doesn't think he has to take any precautions."
"Is he being arrested, friend?" Durnik inquired politely.
"Only temporarily," the passer-by said dryly.
"What are they going to do to him?" Durnik asked.
"The usual."
"What's the usual?"
"Watch and see. The fool should have known better than to come out without his
bodyguards."
The soldiers had surrounded the man in the green mantle, and two of them took
hold of his arms roughly.
"Let me go," Lembor protested. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Just come along quietly, Lembor," the scar-faced soldier ordered. "It will be a
lot easier that way." They began pulling him toward a narrow alleyway.
"Help!" Lembor shouted, desperately trying to struggle.
One of the soldiers smashed the captive in the mouth with his fist, and they
pulled him into the alley. There was a single, short scream and the sounds of a
brief scuffle. There were other sounds as well, a few grunts and the grating
sound of steel on bone, then a long, sighing moan. A wide rivulet of bright
blood trickled out of the mouth of the alley and ran into the gutter. A minute
or so later, the soldiers came back out into the square, grinning and wiping
their swords.
"We've got to do something," Garion said, sick with outrage and horror.
"No," Silk said bluntly. "What we have to do is mind our own business. We're not
here to get involved in local politics."
"Politics?" Garion objected. "That was deliberate murder. Shouldn't we at least
see if he's still alive?"
"Not too likely," Barak said. "Six men with swords can usually do a pretty
thorough job."
A dozen other soldiers, as shabby-looking as the first group, ran into the
square with drawn swords.
"Too late, Rabbas." The scar-faced soldier laughed harshly to the leader of the
newcomers. "Lembor doesn't need you anymore. He just came down with a bad case
of dead. It looks like you're out of work."
The one called Rabbas stopped, his expression dark. Then a look of brutal
cunning spread across his face. "Maybe you're right, Kragger." His voice was
also harsh. "But then again we might be able to create a few vacancies in
Elgon's garrison. I'm sure he'd be happy to hire good replacements." He began to
move forward again, his short sword swinging in a low, dangerous arc.
Then there came the sound of a jingling trot, and twenty legionnaires in a
double column came into the square, their feet striking the cobblestones in
unison. They carried short lances, and they stopped between the two groups of
soldiers. Each column turned to face one group, their lances leveled. The
breastplates of the legionnaires were brightly burnished, and their equipment
was spotless.
"All right, Rabbas, Kragger, that's enough," the sergeant in charge said
sharply. "I want both of you off the street immediately."
"These swine killed Lembor, Sergeant," Rabbas protested.
"That's too bad," the sergeant said without much sympathy. "Now clear the
street. There's not going to be any brawling while I'm on duty."
"Aren't you going to do something?" Rabbas demanded.
"I am," the legionnaire said. "I'm clearing the street. Now get out of here."
Sullenly, Rabbas turned and led his men out of the square.
"That goes for you too, Kragger," the sergeant ordered.
"Of course, Sergeant," Kragger said with an oily smirk. "We were just leaving
anyway."
A crowd had gathered, and there were several boos as the legionnaires herded the
sloppy-looking soldiers out of the square.
The sergeant looked around, his face dangerous, and the boos died immediately.
Durnik hissed sharply. "Over there on the far side of the square," he said to
Wolf in a hoarse whisper. "Isn't that Brill?"
"Again?" Wolf's voice held exasperation. "How does he keep getting ahead of us
like this?"
"Let's find out what he's up to," Silk suggested, his eyes bright.
"He'd recognize any of us if we tried to follow him," Barak warned.
"Leave that to me," Silk said, sliding out of his saddle.
"Did he see us?" Garion asked.
"I don't think so," Durnik said. "He's talking to those men over there. He isn't
looking this way."
"There's an inn near the south end of town," Silk said quickly, pulling off his
vest and tying it to his saddle. "I'll meet you there in an hour or so." Then
the little man turned and disappeared into the crowd.
"Get down off your horses," Mister Wolf ordered tersely. "We'll lead them."
They all dismounted and led their mounts slowly around the edge of the square,
staying close to the buildings and keeping the animals between them and Brill as
much as possible.
Garion glanced once up the narrow alleyway where Kragger and his men had dragged
the protesting Lembor. He shuddered and looked away quickly. A green-mantled
heap lay in a grimy corner, and there was blood splashed thickly on the walls
and the filthy cobblestones in the alley.
After they had moved out of the square, they found the entire town seething with
excitement and in some cases consternation. "Lembor, you say?" an ashen-faced
merchant in a blue mantle exclaimed to another shaken man. "Impossible."
"My brother just talked to a man who was there," the second merchant said.
"Forty of Elgon's soldiers attacked him in the street and cut him down right in
front of the crowd."
"What's going to happen to us?" the first man asked in a shaking voice.
"I don't know about you, but I'm going to hide. Now that Lembor's dead, Elgon's
soldiers are probably going to try to kill us all."
"They wouldn't dare."
"Who's going to stop them? I'm going home."
"Why did we listen to Lembor?" the first merchant wailed. "We could have stayed
out of the whole business."
"It's too late now," the second man said. "I'm going to go home and bar my
doors." He turned and scurried away.
The first man stared after him and then he too turned and fled.
"They play for keeps, don't they?" Barak observed.
"Why do the legions allow it?" Mandorallen asked.
"The legions stay neutral in these affairs," Wolf said. "It's part of their
oath."
The inn to which Silk had directed them was a neat, square building surrounded
by a low wall. They tied their horses in the courtyard and went inside. "We
might as well eat, father," Aunt Pol said, seating herself at a table of
well-scrubbed oak in the sunny common room.
"I was just- " Wolf looked toward the door which led into the taproom.
"I know," she said, "but I think we should eat first."
Wolf sighed. "All right, Pol."
The serving-man brought them a platter of smoking cutlets and heavy slabs of
brown bread soaked in butter. Garion's stomach was still a bit shaky after what
he had witnessed in the square, but the smell of the cutlets soon overcame that.
They had nearly finished eating when a shabby-looking little man in a linen
shirt, leather apron and a ragged hat came in and plunked himself
unceremoniously at the end of their table. His face looked vaguely familiar
somehow. "Wine!" he bawled at the serving-man, "and food." He squinted around in
the golden light streaming through the yellow glass windows of the common room.
"There are other tables, friend," Mandorallen said coldly.
"I like this one," the stranger said. He peered at each of them in turn, and
then he suddenly laughed. Garion stared in amazement as the man's face relaxed,
the muscles seeming to shift under his skin back into their normal positions. It
was Silk.
"How did you do that?" Barak asked, startled.
Silk grinned at him and then reached up to massage his cheeks with his
fingertips. "Concentration, Barak. Concentration and lots of practice. It makes
my jaws ache a bit, though."
"Useful skill, I'd imagine - under the right circumstances," Hettar said
blandly.
"Particularly for a spy," Barak said.
Silk bowed mockingly.
"Where did you get the clothes?" Durnik asked,
"Stole them." Silk shrugged, peeling off the apron.
"What's Brill doing here?" Wolf asked.
"Stirring up trouble, the same as always," Silk replied. "He's telling people
that a Murgo named Asharak is offering a reward for any information about us. He
describes you quite well, old friend - not very flatteringly, but quite well."
"I expect we'll have to deal with this Asharak before long," Aunt Pol said.
"He's beginning to irritate me."
"There's another thing." Silk started on one of the cutlets. "Brill's telling
everyone that Garion is Asharak's son - that we've stolen him and that Asharak's
offering a huge reward for his return."
"Garion?" Aunt Pol asked sharply.
Silk nodded. "The kind of money he's talking about is bound to make everyone in
Tolnedra keep his eyes open." He reached for a piece of bread.
Garion felt a sharp pang of anxiety.
"Why me?" he asked.
"It would delay us," Wolf said. "Asharak-whoever he is - knows that Polgara
would stop to look for you. So would the rest of us, most likely. That would
give Zedar time to get away."
"Just who is Asharak?" Hettar asked, his eyes narrowing.
"A Grolim, I expect," Wolf said. "His operations are a little too widespread for
him to be an ordinary Murgo."
"How can one tell the difference?" Durnik asked.
"You can't," Wolf answered. "They look very much the same. They're two separate
tribes, but they're much more closely related to each other than they are to
other Angaraks. Anyone can tell the difference between a Nadrak and a Thull or a
Thull and a Mallorean, but Murgos and Grolims are so much alike that you can't
tell them apart."
"I've never had any problem," Aunt Pol said. "Their minds are quite different."
"That will make it much easier," Barak commented dryly. "We'll just chop open
the head of the next Murgo we meet, and you can point out the differences to
us."
"You've been spending too much time with Silk lately," Aunt Pol said acidly.
"You're starting to talk like him."
Barak looked over at Silk and winked.
"Let's finish up here and see if we can't get out of town quietly," Wolf said.
"Is there a back alley out of this place?" he asked Silk.
"Naturally," Silk said, still eating.
"Are you familiar with it?"
"Please!" Silk looked a little offended. "Of course I'm familiar with it.
"Let it pass," Wolf said.
The alleyway Silk led them through was narrow, deserted, and smelled quite bad,
but it brought them to the town's south gate, and they were soon on the highway
again.
"A little distance wouldn't hurt at this point," Wolf said. He thumped his heels
to his horse's flanks and started off at a gallop. They rode until well after
dark. The moon, looking swollen and unhealthy, rose slowly above the horizon and
filled the night with a pale light that seemed to leech away all trace of color.
Wolf finally pulled to a stop. "There's really no point in riding all night," he
said. "Let's move off the road and get a few hours' sleep. We'll start out again
early. I'd like to stay ahead of Brill this time if we can."
"Over there?" Durnik suggested, pointing at a small copse of trees looming black
in the moonlight not far from the road.
"It will do," Wolf decided. "I don't think we'll need a fire." They led the
horses in among the trees and pulled their blankets out of the packs. The
moonlight filtered in among the trees and dappled the leaf strewn ground. Garion
found a fairly level place with his feet, rolled up in his blankets and, after
squirming around a bit, he fell asleep.
He awoke suddenly, his eyes dazzled by the light of a half dozen torches. A
heavy foot was pushed down on his chest, and the point of a sword was set
firmly, uncomfortably against his throat.
"Nobody move!" a harsh voice ordered. "We'll kill anybody who moves."
Garion stiffened in panic, and the sword point at his throat dug in sharply. He
rolled his head from side to side and saw that all of his friends were being
held down in the same way he was. Durnik, who had been standing guard, was held
by two rough-looking soldiers, and a piece of rag was stuffed in his mouth.
"What does this mean?" Silk demanded of the soldiers.
"You'll find out," the one in charge rasped. "Get their weapons." As he
gestured, Garion saw that a finger was missing from his right hand.
"There's a mistake here," Silk said. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a merchant, and my
friends and I haven't done anything wrong."
"Get on your feet," the three-fingered soldier ordered, ignoring the little
man's objections. "If any one of you tries to get away, we'll kill all the
rest."
Silk rose and crammed on his cap. "You're going to regret this, Captain," he
said. "I've got powerful friends here in Tolnedra."
The soldier shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything to me," he said. "I take my
orders from Count Dravor. He told me to bring you in."
"All right," Silk said. "Let's go see this Count Dravor, then. We'll get this
cleared up right now, and there's no need for waving your swords around. We'll
come along quietly. None of us is going to do anything to get you excited."
The three-fingered soldier's face darkened in the torchlight. "I don't like your
tone, merchant."
"You're not being paid to like my tone, friend," Silk said. "You're being paid
to escort us to Count Dravor. Now suppose we get moving. The quicker we get
there, the quicker I can give him a full report about your behavior."
"Get their horses," the soldier growled.
Garion had edged over to Aunt Pol.
"Can't you do anything?" he asked her quietly.
"No talking!" the soldier who had captured him barked.
Garion stood helplessly, staring at the sword leveled at his chest.
Chapter Fourteen
THE HOUSE OF Count Dravor was a large white building set in the center of a
broad lawn with clipped hedges and formal gardens on either side. The moon,
fully overhead now, illuminated every detail as they rode slowly up a
white-graveled, curving road that led to the house.
The soldiers ordered them to dismount in the courtyard between the house and the
garden on the west side of the house, and they were hustled inside and down a
long hallway to a heavy, polished door.
Count Dravor was a thin, vague-looking man with deep pouches under his eyes, and
he sprawled in a chair in the center of a richly furnished room. He looked up
with a pleasant, almost dreamy smile on his face as they entered. His mantle was
a pale rose color with silver trim at the hem and around the sleeves to indicate
his rank. It was badly wrinkled and none too clean. "And who are these guests?"
he asked, his voice slurred and barely audible.
"The prisoners, my Lord," the three-fingered soldier explained. "The ones you
ordered arrested."
"Did I order someone arrested?" the count asked, his voice still slurred. "What
a remarkable thing for me to do. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you, my
friends."
"We were a bit surprised, that's all," Silk said carefully.
"I wonder why I did that." The count pondered. "I must have had a reason - I
never do anything without a reason. What have you done wrong?"
"We haven't done anything wrong, my Lord," Silk assured him.
"Then why would I have you arrested? There must be some sort of mistake."
"That's what we thought, my Lord," Silk said.
"Well, I'm glad that's all cleared up," the count said happily. "May I offer you
some dinner, perhaps?"
"We've already eaten, my Lord."
"Oh." The count's face fell with disappointment. "I have so few visitors."
"Perhaps your steward Y'diss may remember the reason these people were detained,
my Lord," the three-fingered soldier suggested.
"Of course," the count said. "Why didn't I think of that? Y'diss remembers
everything. Please send for him at once."
"Yes, my Lord." The soldier bowed and jerked his head curtly at one of his men.
Count Dravor dreamily began playing with one of the folds of his mantle, humming
tunelessly as they waited.
After a few moments a door at the end of the room opened, and a man in an
iridescent and intricately embroidered robe entered. His face was grossly
sensual, and his head was shaved. "You sent for me, my Lord?" His rasping voice
was almost a hiss.
"Ah, Y'diss," Count Dravor said happily, "how good of you to join us."
"It's my pleasure to serve you, my Lord," the steward said with a sinuous bow.
"I was wondering why I asked these friends to stop by," the count said. "I seem
to have forgotten. Do you by any chance recall?"
"It's just a small matter, my Lord," Y'diss answered. "I can easily handle it
for you. You need your rest. You mustn't overtire yourself, you know."
The count passed a hand across his face. "Now that you mention it, I do feel a
bit fatigued, Y'diss. Perhaps you could entertain our guests while I rest a
bit."
"Of course, my Lord," Y'diss said with another bow.
The count shifted around in his chair and almost immediately fell asleep.
"The count is in delicate health," Y'diss said with an oily smile. "He seldom
leaves that chair these days. Let's move away a bit so that we don't disturb
him."
"I'm only a Drasnian merchant, your Eminence," Silk said, "and these are my
servants - except for my sister there. We're baffled by all of this."
Y'diss laughed. "Why do you persist in this absurd fiction, Prince Kheldar? I
know who you are. I know you all, and I know your mission."
"What's your interest in us, Nyissan?" Mister Wolf asked bluntly.
"I serve my mistress, Eternal Salmissra," Y'diss said.
"Has the Snake Woman become the pawn of the Grolims, then?" Aunt Pol asked, "or
does she bow to the will of Zedar?"
"My queen bows to no man, Polgara," Y'diss denied scornfully.
"Really?" She raised one eyebrow. "It's curious to find her servant dancing to a
Grolim tune."
"I have no dealings with the Grolims," Y'diss said. "They're scouring all
Tolnedra for you, but I'm the one who found you."
"Finding isn't keeping, Y'diss," Mister Wolf stated quietly. "Suppose you tell
us what this is all about."
"I'll tell you only what I feel like telling you, Belgarath."
"I think that's about enough, father," Aunt Pol said. "We really don't have time
for Nyissan riddle games, do we?"
"Don't do it, Polgara," Y'diss warned. "I know all about your power. My soldiers
will kill your friends if you so much as raise your hand." Garion felt himself
roughly grabbed from behind, and a sword blade was pressed firmly against his
throat.
Aunt Pol's eyes blazed suddenly. "You're walking on dangerous ground!"
"I don't think we need to exchange threats," Mister Wolf said. "I gather, then,
that you don't intend to turn us over to the Grolims?"
"I'm not interested in the Grolims," Y'diss said. "My queen has instructed me to
deliver you to her in Sthiss Tor."
"What's Salmissra's interest in this matter?" Wolf asked. "It doesn't concern
her."
"I'll let her explain that to you when you get to Sthiss Tor. In the meantime,
there are a few things I'll require you to tell me."
"I think thou wilt have scant success in that," Mandorallen said stiffIy. "It is
not our practice to discuss private matters with unwholesome strangers."
"And I think you're wrong, my dear Baron," Y'diss replied with a cold smile.
"The cellars of this house are deep, and what happens there can be most
unpleasant. I have servants highly skilled in applying certain exquisitely
persuasive torments."
"I do not fear thy torments, Nyissan," Mandorallen said contemptuously.
"No. I don't imagine you do. Fear requires imagination, and you Arends aren't
bright enough to be imaginative. The torments, however, will wear down your will
- and provide entertainment for my servants. Good torturers are hard to find,
and they grow sullen if they aren't allowed to practice - I'm sure you
understand. Later, after you've all had the chance to visit with them a time or
two, we'll try something else. Nyissa abounds with roots and leaves and curious
little berries with strange properties. Oddly enough, most men prefer the rack
or the wheel to my little concoctions." Y'diss laughed then, a brutal sound with
no mirth in it. "We'll discuss all this further after I have the count settled
in for the night. For right now, the guards will take you downstairs to the
places I've prepared for you all."
Count Dravor roused himself and looked around dreamily. "Are our friends
departing so soon?" he asked.
"Yes, my Lord," Y'diss told him.
"Well then," the count said with a vague smile, "farewell, dear people. I hope
you'll return someday so that we can continue our delightful conversation."
The cell to which Garion was taken was dank and clammy, and it smelled of sewage
and rotting food. Worst of all was the darkness. He huddled beside the iron door
with the blackness pressing in on him palpably. From one corner of the cell came
little scratchings and skittering sounds. He thought of rats and tried to stay
as near to the door as possible. Water trickled somewhere, and his throat began
to burn with thirst.
It was dark, but it was not silent. Chains clinked in a nearby cell, and someone
was moaning. Further off, there was insane laughter, a meaningless cackle
repeated over and over again without pause, endlessly rattling in the dark.
Someone screamed, a piercing, shocking sound, and then again. Garion cringed
back against the slimy stones of the wall, his imagination immediately
manufacturing tortures to account for the agony in those screams.
Time in such a place was nonexistent, and so there was no way to know how long
he had huddled in his cell, alone and afraid, before he began to hear a faint
metallic scraping and clinking that seemed to come from the door itself. He
scrambled away, stumbling across the uneven floor of his cell to the far wall.
"Go away!" he cried.
"Keep your voice down!" Silk whispered from the far side of the door.
"Is that you, Silk?" Garion almost sobbed with relief.
"Who were you expecting?"
"How did you get loose?"
"Don't talk so much," Silk said from between clenched teeth. "Accursed rust!" he
swore. Then he grunted, and there was a grating click from the door. "There!"
The cell door creaked open, and the dim light from torches somewhere filtered
in. "Come along," Silk whispered. "We have to hurry."
Garion almost ran from the cell. Aunt Pol was waiting a few steps down the
gloomy stone corridor. Without a word, Garion went to her. She looked at him
gravely for a moment and then put her arms about him. They did not speak.
Silk was working on another door, his face gleaming with perspiration. The lock
clicked, and the door creaked open. Hettar stepped out. "What took you so long?"
he asked Silk.
"Rust!" Silk snapped in a low voice. "I'd like to flog all the jailers in this
place for letting the locks get into this condition."
"Do you suppose we could hurry a bit?" Barak suggested over his shoulder from
where he stood guard.
"Do you want to do this?" Silk demanded.
"Just move along as quickly as you can," Aunt Pol said. "We don't have the time
for bickerin just now." She removed her blue cloak over one arm.
Silk grunted sourly and moved on to the next door.
"Is all this oratory actually necessary?" Mister Wolf, the last to be released,
asked crisply as he stepped out of his cell. "You've all been babbling like a
flock of geese out here."
"Prince Kheldar felt need to make observations about the condition of the
locks," Mandorallen said lightly.
Silk scowled at him and led the way toward the end of the corridor where the
torches fumed greasy onto the blackened ceiling.
"Have a care," Mandorallen whispered urgently. "There's a guard."
A bearded man in a dirty leather jerkin sat on the floor with his back against
the wall of the corridor, snoring.
"Can we get past without waking him up?" Durnik breathed.
"He isn't going to wake up for several hours," Barak said grimly. The large
purple swelling on the side of the guard's face immediately explained.
"Dost think there might be others?" Mandorallen asked, flexing his hands.
"There were a few," Barak said. "They're sleeping too."
"Let's get out of here, then," Wolf suggested.
"We'll take Y'diss with us, won't we?" Aunt Pol asked.
"What for?"
"I'd like to talk with him," she said. "At great length."
"It would be a waste of time," Wolf said. "Salmissra's involved herself in this
affair. That's all we really need to know. Her motives don't really interest me
all that much. Let's just get out of here as quietly as we can."
They crept past the snoring guard, turned a corner and moved softly down another
corridor.
"Did he die?" a voice, shockingly loud, asked from behind a barred door that
emitted a smoky red light.
"No," another voice said, "only fainted. You pulled too hard on the lever. You
have to keep the pressure steady. Otherwise they faint, and you have to start
over."
"This is a lot harder than I thought," the first voice complained.
"You're doing fine," the second voice said. "The rack's always tricky. Just
remember to keep a steady pressure and not to jerk the lever. They usually die
if you pull their arms out of the sockets."
Aunt Pol's face went rigid, and her eyes blazed briefly. She made a small
gesture and whispered something. A brief, hushed sound murmured in Garion's
mind.
"You know," the first voice said rather faintly, "suddenly I don't feel so
good."
"Now that you mention it, I don't either," the second voice agreed. "Did that
meat we had for supper taste all right to you?"
"It seemed all right." There was a long pause. "I really don't feel good at
all."
They tiptoed past the barred door, and Garion carefully avoided looking in. At
the end of the corridor was a stout oak door bound with iron. Silk ran his
fingers around the handle. "It's locked from the outside," he said.
"Someone's coming," Hettar warned.
There was the tramp of heavy feet on the stone stairs beyond the door, the
murmur of voices and a harsh laugh.
Wolf turned quickly to the door of a nearby cell. He touched his fingers to the
rusty iron lock, and it clicked smoothly. "In here," he whispered. They all
crowded into the cell, and Wolf pulled the door shut behind them.
"When we've got some leisure, I'll want to talk to you about that," Silk said.
"You were having such a good time with the locks that I didn't want to
interfere." Wolf smiled blandly. "Now listen. We're going to have to deal with
these men before they find out that our cells are empty and rouse the whole
house."
"We can do that," Barak said confidently. They waited.
"They're opening the door," Durnik whispered.
"How many are there?" Mandorallen asked.
"I can't tell."
"Eight," Aunt Pol said firmly.
"All right," Barak decided. "We'll let them pass and then jump on them from
behind. A scream or two won't matter much in a place like this, but let's put
them down quickly."
They waited tensely in the darkness of the cell.
"Y'diss says it doesn't matter if some of them die under the questioning," one
of the men outside said. "The only ones wee have to keep alive are the old man,
the woman, and the boy."
"Let's kill the big one with the red whiskers then," other suggested. "He looks
like he might be troublesome, and he's probably too stupid to know anything
useful."
"I want that one," Barak whispered.
The men in the corridor passed their cell.
"Let's go," Barak said.
It was a short, ugly fight. They swarmed over the startled jailers in a savage
rush. Three were down before the others fully realized what was happening. One
made a startled outcry, dodged past the fight and ran back toward the stairs.
Without thinking, Garion dove in front of the running man. Then he rolled,
tangling the man's feet, tripping him up. The guard fell, started to rise, then
sagged back down in a limp heap as Silk neatly kicked him just below the ear.
"Are you all right?" Silk asked.
Garion squirmed out from under the unconscious jailer and scrambled to his feet,
but the fight was nearly over. Durnik was pounding a stout man's head against
the wall, and Barak was driving his fist into another's face. Mandorallen was
strangling a third, and Hettar stalked a fourth, his hands out. The wide-eyed
man cried out once just as Hettar's hands closed on him. The tall Algar
straightened, spun about and slammed the man into the stone wall with terrific
force. There was the grating sound of bones breaking, and the man went limp.
"Nice little fight," Barak said, rubbing his knuckles.
"Entertaining," Hettar agreed, letting the limp body slide to the floor.
"Are you about through?" Silk demanded hoarsely from the door by the stairs.
"Almost," Barak said. "Need any help, Durnik?"
Durnik lifted the stout man's chin and examined the vacant eyes critically. Then
he prudently banged the jailer's head against the wall once more and let him
fall.
"Shall we go?" Hettar suggested.
"Might as well," Barak agreed, surveying the littered corridor.
"The door's unlocked at the top of the stairs," Silk said as they joined him,
"and the hallway's empty beyond it. The house seems to be asleep, but let's be
quiet."
They followed him silently up the stairs. He paused briefly at the door. "Wait
here a moment," he whispered. Then he disappeared, his feet making absolutely no
sound. After what seemed a long time, he returned with the weapons the soldiers
had taken from them. "I thought we might need these."
Garion felt much better after he had belted on his sword.
"Let's go," Silk said and led them to the end of the hall and around a corner.
"I think I'd like some of the green, Y'diss," Count Dravor's voice came from
behind a partially open door.
"Certainly, my Lord," Y'diss said in his sibilant, rasping voice. "The green
tastes bad," Count Dravor said drowsily, "but it gives me such lovely dreams.
The red tastes better, but the dreams aren't so nice."
"Soon you'll be ready for the blue, my Lord," Y'diss promised. There was a faint
clink and the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. "Then the yellow, and
finally the black. The black's best of all."
Silk led them on tiptoe past the half open door. The lock on the outside door
yielded quickly to his skill, and they all slipped out into the cool, moonlit
night. The stars twinkled overhead, and the air was sweet. "I'll get the
horses," Hettar said.
"Go with him, Mandorallen," Wolf said. "We'll wait over there." He pointed at
the shadowy garden. The two men disappeared around the corner, and the rest of
them followed Mister Wolf into the looming shadow of the hedge which surrounded
Count Dravor's garden.
They waited. The night was chilly, and Garion found himself shivering. Then
there was a click of a hoof touching a stone, and Hettar and Mandorallen came
back, leading the horses.
"We'd better hurry," Wolf said. "As soon as Dravor drops off to sleep, Y'diss is
going to go down to his dungeon and find out that we've left. Lead the horses.
Let's get away from the house before we start making any noise."
They went down through the moonlit garden with the horses trailing along after
them until they emerged on the open lawn beyond. They mounted carefully.
"We'd better hurry," Aunt Pol suggested, glancing back at the house.
"I bought us a little time before I left," Silk said with a short laugh.
"How'd you manage that?" Barak asked.
"When I went to get our weapons, I also set fire to the kitchen." Silk smirked.
"That will keep their attention for a bit."
A tendril of smoke rose from the back of the house.
"Very clever," Aunt Pol said with a certain grudging admiration.
"Why thank you, my Lady." Silk made a mocking little bow. Mister Wolf chuckled
and led them away at an easy trot.
The tendril of smoke at the back of the house became thicker as they rode away,
rising black and oily toward the uncaring stars.
Chapter Fifteen
THEY RODE HARD for the next several days, stopping only long enough to rest the
horses and catch a few hours' sleep at infrequent intervals. Garion found that
he could doze in his saddle whenever they walked the horses. He found, indeed,
that if he were tired enough, he could sleep almost anyplace. One afternoon as
they rested from the driving pace Wolf set, he heard Silk talking to the old man
and Aunt Pol. Curiosity finally won out over exhaustion, and he roused himself
enough to listen.
"I'd still like to know more about Salmissra's involvement in this," the little
man was saying.
"She's an opportunist," Wolf said. "Any time there's turmoil, she tries to turn
it to her own advantage."
"That means we'll have to dodge Nyissans as well as Murgos." Garion opened his
eyes. "Why do they call her Eternal Salmissra?" he asked Aunt Pol. "Is she very
old?"
"No," Aunt Pol answered. "The Queens of Nyissa are always named Salmissra,
that's all."
"Do you know this particular one?"
"I don't have to," she told him. "They're always exactly the same. They all look
alike and act alike. If you know one, you know them all."
"She's going to be terribly disappointed with Y'diss," Silk observed, grinning.
"I imagine that Y'diss has taken some quiet, painless way out by now," Wolf
said. "Salmissra grows a bit excessive when she's irritated."
"Is she so cruel then?" Garion asked.
"Not cruel exactly," Wolf explained. "Nyissans admire serpents. If you annoy a
snake, he'll bite you. He's a simple creature, but very logical. Once he bites
you, he doesn't hold any further grudges."
"Do we have to talk about snakes?" Silk asked in a pained voice.
"I think the horses are rested now," Hettar said from behind them. "We can go
now."
They pushed the horses back into a gallop and pounded south toward the broad
valley of the Nedrane River and Tol Honeth. The sun turned warm, and the trees
along the way were budding in the first days of spring,
The gleaming Imperial City was situated on an island in the middle of the river,
and all roads led there. It was clearly visible in the distance as they crested
the last ridge and looked down into the fertile valley and it seemed to grow
larger with each passing mile as they approached it. It was built entirely of
white marble and it dazzled the eye in the midmorning sun. The walls were high
and thick, and towers soared above them within the city.
A bridge arched gracefully across the rippled face of the Nedrane to the bronze
expanse of the north gate where a glittering detachment of legionnaires marched
perpetual guard.
Silk pulled on his conservative cloak and cap and drew himself up, his face
assuming that sober, businesslike expression that meant that he was undergoing a
private internal transition that seemed to make him almost believe himself that
he was the Drasnian merchant whose identity he assumed.
"Your business in Tol Honeth?" one of the legionnaires asked politely. "I am
Radek of Boktor," Silk said with the preoccupied air of a man whose mind was on
business. "I have Sendarian woolens of the finest quality."
"You'll probably want to talk with the Steward of the Central Market, then," the
legionnaire suggested.
"Thank you." Silk nodded and led them through the gate into the broad and
crowded streets beyond.
"I think I'd better stop by the palace and have a talk with Ran Borune," Mister
Wolf said. "The Borunes aren't the easiest emperors to deal with, but they're
the most intelligent. I shouldn't have too much trouble convincing him that the
situation's serious."
"How are you going to get to see him?" Aunt Pol asked him. "It could take weeks
to get an appointment. You know how they are."
Mister Wolf made a sour face. "I suppose I could make a ceremonial visit of it,"
he said as they pushed their horses through the crowd.
"And announce your presence to the whole city?"
"Do I have any choice? I have to nail down the Tolnedrans. We can't afford to
have them neutral."
"Could I make a suggestion?" Barak asked.
"I'll listen to anything at this point."
"Why don't we go see Grinneg?" Barak said. "He's the Cherek Ambassador here in
Tol Honeth. He could get us into the palace to see the Emperor without all that
much fuss."
"That's not a bad idea, Belgarath," Silk agreed. "Grinneg's got enough
connections in the palace to get us inside quickly, and Ran Borune respects
him."
"That only leaves the problem of getting in to see the ambassador," Durnik said
as they stopped to let a heavy wagon pass into a side street.
"He's my cousin," Barak said. "He and Anheg and I used to play together when we
were children." The big man looked around. "He's supposed to have a house near
the garrison of the Third Imperial Legion. I suppose we could ask somebody the
way."
"That won't be necessary," Silk said. "I know where it is."
"I should have known." Barak grinned.
"We can go through the north marketplace," Silk said. "The garrison's located
near the main wharves on the downstream end of the island."
"Lead the way," Wolf told him. "I don't want to waste too much time here."
The streets of Tol Honeth teemed with people from all over the world. Drasnians
and Rivans rubbed elbows with Nyissans and Thulls. There was a sprinkling of
Nadraks in the crowd and, to Garion's eye, a disproportionate number of Murgos.
Aunt Pol rode close beside Hettar, talking quietly to him and frequently laying
her hand lightly on his sword arm. The lean Algar's eyes burned, and his
nostrils flared dangerously each time he saw a scarred Murgo face.
The houses along the wide streets were imposing, with white marble facades and
heavy doors, quite often guarded by private mercenary soldiers, who glared
belligerently at passers-by.
"The Imperial City seems awash with suspicion," Mandorallen observed. "Do they
fear their neighbors so?"
"Troubled times," Silk explained. "And the merchant princes of Tol Honeth keep a
great deal of the world's wealth in their counting-rooms. There are men along
this street who could buy most of Arendia if they wanted to."
"Arendia is not for sale," Mandorallen said stiffly.
"In Tol Honeth, my dear Baron, everything's for sale," Silk told him. "Honor,
virtue, friendship, love. It's a wicked city full of wicked people, and money's
the only thing that matters."
"I expect you fit right in, then," Barak said.
Silk laughed. "I like Tol Honeth," he admitted. "The people here have no
illusions. They're refreshingly corrupt."
"You're a bad fan, Silk," Barak stated bluntly.
"So you've said before," the rat-faced little Drasnian said with a mocking grin.
The banner of Cherek, the outline of a white war-boat on an azure background,
fluttered from a pole surmounting the gate of the ambassador's house. Barak
dismounted a bit stiffly and strode to the iron grill which blocked the gate.
"Tell Grinneg that his cousin Barak is here to see him," he announced to the
bearded guards inside.
"How do we know you're his cousin?" one of the guards demanded roughly.
Barak reached through the grill almost casually and took hold of the front of
the guard's mail shirt. He pulled the man up firmly against the barn. "Would you
like to rephrase that question," he asked, "while you still have your health?"
"Excuse me, Lord Barak," the man apologized quickly. "Now that I'm closer, I do
seem to recognize your face."
"I was almost sure you would," Barak said.
"Let me unlock the gate for you," the guard suggested.
"Excellent idea," Barak said, letting go of the man's shirt. The guard opened
the gate quickly, and the party rode into a spacious courtyard.
Grinneg, the ambassador of King Anheg to the Imperial Court at Tol Honeth, was a
burly man almost as big as Barak. His beard was trimmed very short, and he wore
a Tolnedran-style blue mantle. He came down the stairs two at a time and caught
Barak in a vast bear hug. "You pirate!" he roared. "What are you doing in Tol
Honeth?"
"Anheg's decided to invade the place," Barak joked. "As soon as we've rounded up
all the gold and young women, we're going to let you burn the city."
Grinneg's eyes glittered with a momentary hunger. "Wouldn't that infuriate
them?" he said with a vicious grin.
"What happened to your beard?" Barak asked.
Grinneg coughed and looked embarrassed. "It's not important," he said quickly.
"We've never had any secrets," Barak accused.
Grinneg spoke quietly to his cousin for a moment, looking very ashamed of
himself, and Barak burst out with a great roar of laughter. "Why did you let her
do that?" he demanded.
"I was drunk," Grinneg said. "Let's go inside. I've got a keg of good ale in my
cellar."
The rest of them followed the two big men into the house, and they went down a
broad hallway to a room with Cherek furnishings - heavy chairs and benches
covered with skins, a rush-strewn floor and a huge fireplace where the butt end
of a large log smoldered. Several pitchsmeared torches smoked in iron rings on
the stone wall.
"I feel more at home here," Grinneg said.
A servant brought tankards of dark brown ale for them all and then quietly left
the room. Garion quickly lifted his tankard and took a large swallow of the
bitter drink before Aunt Pol could suggest something more bland. She watched him
without comment, her eyes expressionless.
Grinneg sprawled in a large, hand-hewn chair with a bearskin tossed over it.
"Why are you really in Tol Honeth, Barak?" he asked.
"Grinneg," Barak said serously, "this is Belgarath. I'm sure you've heard of
him."
The ambassador's eyes widened, and he inclined his head. "My house is yours," he
said respectfully.
"Can you get me in to see Ran Borune?" Mister Wolf asked, sitting on a rough
bench near the fireplace.
"Without any difficulty."
"Good," Wolf said. "I have to talk to him, and I don't want to stir up any fuss
in the process."
Barak introduced the others, and his cousin nodded politely to each of them.
"You've come to Tol Honeth during a turbulent period," he said after the
amenities were over. "The nobility of Tolnedra are gathering in the city like
ravens on a dead cow."
"We picked up a hint or two of that on our way south," Silk told him. "Is it as
bad as we heard?"
"Probably worse," Grinneg said, scratching one ear. "Dynastic succession only
happens a few times in each eon. The Borunes have been in power now for over six
hundred years, and the other houses are anticipating the changeover with a great
deal of enthusiasm."
"Who's the most likely to succeed Ran Borune?" Mister Wolf asked.
"Right at the moment the best would probably be the Grand Duke Kador of Tol
Vordue," Grinneg answered. "He seems to have more money than the rest. The
Honeths are richer, of course, but they've got seven candidates, and their
wealth is spread out a little too thin. The other families aren't really in the
running. The Borunes don't have anyone suitable, and no one takes the Ranites
seriously."
Garion carefully set his tankard on the floor beside the stool he sat on. The
bitter ale didn't really taste that good, and he felt vaguely cheated somehow.
The half tankard he had drunk made his ears quite warm, though, and the end of
his nose seemed a little numb.
"A Vorduvian we met said that the Horbites are using poison," Silk said.
"They all are." Grinneg wore a slightly disgusted look. "The Horbites are just a
little more obvious about it, that's all. If Ran Borune dies tomorrow, though,
Kador will be the next Emperor."
Mister Wolf frowned. "I've never had much success dealing with the Vorduvians.
They don't really have imperial stature."
"The old Emperor's still in pretty fair health," Grinneg said. "If he hangs on
for another year or two, the Honeths will probably fall into line behind one
candidate - whichever one survives - and then they'll be able to bring all their
money to bear on the situation. These things take time, though. The candidates
themselves are staying out of town for the most part, and they're all being
extremely careful, so the assassins are having a great deal of difficulty
reaching them." He laughed, taking a long drink of ale. "They're a funny
people."
"Could we go to the palace now?" Mister Wolf asked.
"We'll want to change clothes first," Aunt Pol said firmly.
"Again, Polgara?" Wolf gave her a long-suffering look.
"Just do it, father," she said. "I won't let you embarrass us by wearing rags to
the palace."
"I'm not going to wear that robe again." The old man's voice was stubborn.
"No," she said. "It wouldn't be suitable. I'm sure the ambassador can lend you a
mantle. You won't be quite so obvious that way."
"Whatever you say, Pol." Wolf sighed, giving up.
After they had changed, Grinneg formed up his honorguard, a grimlooking group of
Cherek warriors, and they were escorted along the broad avenues of Tol Honeth
toward the palace. Garion, all bemused by the opulence of the city and feeling
just a trifle giddy from the effects of the half tankard of ale he had drunk,
rode quietly beside Silk, trying not to gawk at the huge buildings or the richly
dressed Tolnedrans strolling with grave decorum in the noonday sun.
Chapter Sixteen
THE IMPERIAL PALACE Sat on a high hill in the center of Tol Honeth. It consisted
not of one building, but rather was a complex of many, large and small, all
built of marble and surrounded by gardens and lawns where cypress trees cast a
pleasing shade. The entire compound was enclosed by a high wall, surmounted by
statues spaced at intervals along its top. The legionnaires at the palace gate
recognized the Cherek ambassador and sent immediately for one of the Emperor's
chamberlains, a gray-haired official in a brown mantle.
"I need to see Ran Borune, Lord Morin," Grinneg told him as they all dismounted
in a marble courtyard just inside the palace gate. "It's a matter of urgency."
"Of course, Lord Grinneg," the gray-haired man assented. "His Imperial Highness
is always delighted to speak with the personal envoy of King Anheg.
Unfortunately, his Highness is resting just now. I should be able to get you in
to see him sometime this afternoon - tomorrow morning at the latest."
"This won't wait, Morin," Grinneg said. "We have to see the Emperor immediately.
You'd better go wake him up."
Lord Morin looked surprised. "It can't be that urgent," he suggested chillingly.
"I'm afraid so," Grinneg said.
Morin pursed his lips thoughtfully as he looked at each member of the party.
"You know me well enough to realize that I wouldn't ask this lightly, Morin,"
Grinneg said.
Morin sighed. "I'm trusting you a great deal, Grinneg. All right. Come along.
Ask your soldiers to wait."
Grinneg made a curt gesture to his guards, and the party followed Lord Morin
through a broad courtyard to a columned gallery that ran along one of the
buildings.
"How's he been?" Grinneg asked as they walked along the shady gallery.
"His health is still good," Morin answered, "but his temper's been deteriorating
lately. The Borunes have been resigning their posts in flocks and returning to
Tol Borune."
"That seems prudent under the circumstances," Grinneg said. "I suspect that a
certain number of fatalities are likely to accompany the succession."
"Probably so," Morin agreed, "but his Highness finds it a bit distressing to be
abandoned by members of his own family." He stopped by an arched marble gate
where two legionnaires in gold-embellished breastplates stood stiffly. "Please
leave your weapons here. His Highness is sensitive about such things - I'm sure
you can understand."
"Of course," Grinneg said, pulling a heavy sword out from under his mantle and
leaning it against the wall.
They all followed his example, and Lord Morin's eyes flickered slightly with
surprise when Silk removed three different daggers from various places beneath
his garments. Formidable eguipment - the chamberlain's hands flickered in the
gestures of the secret language.
-Troubled times-Silk's fingers explained deprecatingly.
Lord Morin smiled faintly and led them through the gate into the garden beyond.
The lawn in the garden was neatly manicured. There were softly splashing
fountains, and the rosebushes were all well-pruned. Fruit trees that seemed to
be very old were budding, almost ready to burst into bloom in the warm sun.
Sparrows bickered over nesting sites on the twisted limbs. Grinneg and the
others followed Morin along a curving marble walk toward the center of the
garden.
Ran Borune XXIII, Emperor of Tolnedra, was a small, elderly man, quite bald and
dressed in a gold-colored mantle. He lounged in a heavy chair beneath a budding
grape arbor, feeding small seeds to a bright canary perched on the arm of his
chair. The Emperor had a little, beaklike nose and bright, inquisitive eyes. "I
said I wanted to be left alone, Morin," he said in a testy voice, looking up
from the canary.
"A million apologies, your Highness," Lord Morin explained, bowing deeply. "Lord
Grinneg, the ambassador of Cherek, wishes to present you a matter of gravest
urgency. He convinced me that it simply could not wait."
The Emperor looked sharply at Grinneg. His eyes grew sly, almost malicious. "I
see that your beard's beginning to grow back, Grinneg."
Grinneg's face flushed slowly. "I should have known that your Highness would
have heard of my little misfortune."
"I know everything that happens in Tol Honeth, Lord Grinneg," the Emperor
snapped. "Even if all my cousins and nephews are running like rats out of a
burning house, I still have a few faithful people around me. Whatever possessed
you to take up with that Nadrak woman? I thought you Alorns despised Angaraks."
Grinneg coughed awkwardly and glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. "It was a kind of
joke, your Highness," he said. "I thought it might embarrass the Nadrak
ambassador - and his wife is, after all, a handsomelooking woman. I didn't know
she kept a pair of scissors under her bed."
"She keeps your beard in a little gold box, you know." The emperor smirked. "And
she shows it to all her friends."
"She's an evil woman," Grinneg said mournfully.
"Who are these?" the Emperor asked, waving one finger at the members of the
party standing on the grass somewhat behind Ambassador Grinneg.
"My cousin Barak and some friends," Grinneg said. "They're the ones who have to
talk to you."
"The Earl of Trellheim?" the Emperor asked. "What are you doing in Tol Honeth,
my Lord?"
"Passing through, your Highness," Barak replied, bowing.
Ran Borune looked sharply at each of the rest in turn as if actually seeing them
for the first time. "And this would be Prince Kheldar of Drasnia," he said, "who
left Tol Honeth in a hurry last time he was here - posing as an acrobat in a
traveling circus, I believe, and about one jump ahead of the police."
Silk also bowed politely.
"And Hettar of Algaria," the Emperor continued, "the man who's trying to
depopulate Cthol Murgos singlehandedly."
Hettar inclined his head.
"Morin," the Emperor demanded sharply, "why have you surrounded me with Alorns?
I don't like Alorns."
"It's this matter of urgency, your Highness," Morin replied apologetically.
"And an Arend?" the Emperor said, looking at Mandorallen. "A Mimbrate, I should
say." His eyes narrowed. "From the descriptions I've heard, he could only be the
Baron of Vo Mandor."
Mandorallen's bow was gracefully elaborate. "Throe eye is most keen, your
Highness, to have read us each in turn without prompting."
"Not all of you precisely," the Emperor said. "I don't recognize the Sendar or
the Rivan lad."
Garion's mind jumped. Barak had once told him that he resembled a Rivan more
than anything else, but that thought had been lost in the welter of events which
had followed the chance remark. Now the Emperor of Tolnedra, whose eye seemed to
have an uncanny ability to penetrate to the true nature of things, had also
identified him as a Rivan. He glanced quickly at Aunt Pol, but she seemed
absorbed in examining the buds on a rosebush.
"The Sendar is Durnik," Mister Wolf said, "a smith. In Sendaria that useful
trade is considered somewhat akin to nobility. The lad is my grandson, Garion."
The Emperor looked at the old man. "It seems that I should know who you are.
There's something about you-" He paused thoughtfully. The canary, which had been
perched on the arm of the Emperor's chair, suddenly burst into song. He launched
himself into the air and fluttered directly to Aunt Pol. She held out her
finger, and the bright bird landed there, tipped back his head and sang
ecstatically as if his tiny heart were breaking with adoration. She listened
gravely to his song. She wore a dark blue dress, elaborately laced at the
bodice, and a short sable cape.
"What are you doing with my canary?" the Emperor demanded.
"Listening," she said.
"How did you get him to sing? I've been trying to coax him into song for
months."
"You didn't take him seriously enough."
"Who is this woman?" the Emperor asked.
"My daughter Polgara," Mister Wolf said. "She has a particularly keen
understanding of birds."
The Emperor laughed suddenly, a harshly skeptical laugh. "Oh, come now. You
really don't expect me to accept that, do you?"
Wolf looked at him gravely. "Are you really sure you don't know me, Ran Borune?"
he asked mildly. The pale green mantle Grinneg had lent him made him look almost
like a Tolnedran - almost, but not quite.
"It's a clever ruse," the Emperor said. "You look the part, and so does she, but
I'm not a child. I gave up fairy tales a long time ago."
"That's a pity. I'd guess that your life's been a little empty since then." Wolf
looked around at the manicured garden with the servants and fountains and the
members of the Emperor's personal guard posted unobtrusively here and there
among the flowerbeds. "Even with all this, Ran Borune, a life without any wonder
left in it is flat and stale." His voice was a little sad. "I think that perhaps
you gave up too much."
"Morin," Ran Borune demanded peremptorily, "send for Zereel. We'll settle this
immediately."
"At once, your Highness," Morin said and beckoned to one of the servants.
"May I have my canary back?" the Emperor asked Aunt Pol rather plaintively.
"Of course." She moved across the grass toward the chair, stepping slowly to
avoid startling the trilling little bird.
"Sometimes I wonder what they're saying when they sing," Ran Borune said.
"Right now he's telling me about the day he learned to fly," Aunt Pol said.
"That's a very important day for a bird." She reached out her hand, and the
canary hopped onto the Emperor's finger, still singing and with its bright eye
cocked toward Ran Borune's face.
"That's an amusing conceit, I suppose." The little old man smiled, staring out
at the sunlight sparkling on the water in one of the fountains. "But I'm afraid
I don't have time for that kind of thing. Right now the whole nation is holding
its breath in anticipation of my death. They all seem to think that the greatest
thing I can do for Tolnedra is to die immediately. Some of them have even gone
to the trouble of trying to help me along. We caught four assassins inside the
palace grounds just last week. The Borunes, my own family, are deserting me to
the point that I scarcely have enough people left to run the palace, much less
the Empire. Ah, here comes Zereel."
A lean, bushy-browed man in a red mantle covered with mystic symbols scurried
across the lawn and bowed deeply to the emperor. "You sent for me, your
Highness?"
"I am informed that this woman is Polgara the Sorceress," the Emperor said, "and
that the old man there is Belgarath. Be a good fellow, Zereel, and have a look
into their credentials."
"Belgarath and Polgara?" the bushy-browed man scoffed. "Surely your Highness
isn't serious. The names are mythological. No such people exist."
"You see," the Emperor said to Aunt Pol. "You don't exist. I have it on the very
best authority. Zereel's a wizard himself, you know."
"Really?"
"One of the very best," he assured her. "Of course most of his tricks are just
sleight of hand, since sorcery's only a sham, but he amuses me and he takes
himself very seriously. You may proceed, Zereel, but try not to raise an awful
stink, as you usually do."
"That won't be necessary, your Highness," Zereel said flatly. "If they were
wizards of any kind, I'd have recognized them immediately. We have special ways
of communicating, you know."
Aunt Pol looked at the wizard with one eyebrow slightly raised. "I think that
you should look a bit closer, Zereel," she suggested. "Sometimes we miss
things." She made an almost imperceptible gesture, and Garion seemed to hear a
faint rush of sound.
The wizard stared, his eyes fixed on open air directly in front of him. His eyes
began to bulge, and his face turned deathly pale. As if his legs had been cut
from under him, he fell onto his face. "Forgive me, Lady Polgara," he croaked,
groveling.
"That's supposed to impress me, I assume," the Emperor said. "I've seen men's
minds overwhelmed before, however, and Zereel's mind isn't all that strong to
begin with."
"This is getting tiresome, Ran Borune," she said tartly.
"You really ought to believe her, you know." The canary spoke in a tiny, piping
voice. "I knew who she was immediately - of course we're much more perceptive
than you things that creep around on the ground - why do you do that? If you'd
just try, I'm sure you'd be able to fly. And I wish you'd stop eating so much
garlic - it makes you smell awful."
"Hush, now," Aunt Pol said gently to the bird. "You can tell him all about it
later."
The Emperor was trembling violently, and he stared at the bird as if it were a
snake.
"Why don't we all just behave as if we believed that Polgara and I are who we
say we are?" Mister Wolf suggested. "We could spend the rest of the day trying
to convince you, and we really don't have that much time. There are some things
I have to tell you, and they're important no matter who I am."
"I think I can accept that," Ran Borune said, still trembling and staring at the
now-silent canary.
Mister Wolf clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at a cluster of
bickering sparrows on the limb of a nearby tree. "Early last fall," he began,
"Zedar the Apostate crept into the throne room at Riva and stole the Orb of
Aldur."
"He did what?" Ran Borune demanded, sitting up quickly. "How?"
"We don't know," Wolf answered. "When I catch up with him, maybe I'll ask him.
I'm sure, however, that you can see the importance of the event."
"Obviously," the Emperor said.
"The Alorns and the Sendars are quietly preparing for war," Wolf told him.
"War?" Ran Borune asked in a shocked voice. "With whom?"
"The Angaraks, of course."
"What's Zedar got to do with the Angaraks? He could be acting on his own,
couldn't he?"
"Surely you're not that simple," Aunt Pol remarked.
"You forget yourself, Lady," Ran Borune said stiffly. "Where's Zedar now?"
"He went through Tol Honeth about two weeks ago," Wolf replied. "If he can get
across the border into one of the Angarak kingdoms before I can stop him, the
Alorns will march."
"And Arendia with them," Mandorallen said firmly. "King Korodullin has also been
advised."
"You'll tear the world apart," the Emperor protested.
"Perhaps," Wolf admitted, "but we can't let Zedar get to Torak with the Orb."
"I'll send emissaries at once," Ran Borune said. "This has to be headed off
before it gets out of hand."
"It's a little late for that," Barak said grimly. "Anheg and the others aren't
in any mood for Tolnedran diplomacy right now."
"Your people have a bad reputation in the north, your Highness," Silk pointed
out. "They always seem to have a few trade agreements up their sleeves. Every
time Tolnedra mediates a dispute, it seems to cost a great deal. I don't think
we can afford your good offices anymore."
A cloud passed in front of the sun, and the garden seemed suddenly chilly in its
shadow.
"This is being blown all out of proportion," the Emperor protested. "The Alorns
and the Angaraks have been squabbling over that worthless stone for thousands of
years. You've been waiting for the chance to fall on each other, and now you've
got an excuse. Well, enjoy yourselves. Tolnedra's not going to get involved as
long as I'm her Emperor."
"You're not going to be able to sit to one side in this, Ran Borune," Aunt Pol
said.
"Why not? The Orb doesn't concern me one way or the other. Go ahead and destroy
each other if you want. Tolnedra will still be here when it's all over."
"I doubt it," Wolf told him. "Your Empire's crawling with Murgos. They could
overrun you in a week."
"They're honest merchants - here on honest business."
"Murgos don't have honest business," Aunt Pol told him. "Every Murgo in Tolnedra
is here because he was sent by the Grolim High Priest."
"That's an exaggeration," Ran Borune said stubbornly. "The whole world knows
that you and your father have an obsessive hatred of all Angaraks, but times
have changed."
"Cthol Murgos is still ruled from Rak Cthol," Wolf said, "and Ctuchik is master
there. Ctuchik hasn't changed, even if the world has. The merchants from Rak
Goska might seem civilized to you, but they all jump when Ctuchik whistles, and
Ctuchik's the disciple of Torak."
"Torak's dead."
"Really?" Aunt Pol said. "Have you seen his grave? Have you opened the grave and
seen his bones?"
"My Empire's very expensive to run," the Emperor said, "and I need the revenue
the Murgos bring me. I've got agents in Rak Goska and all along the South
Caravan Route, so I'd know if the Murgos were getting ready for any kind of move
against me. I'm just a little suspicious that all this might be the result of
some internal contention within the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. You people have
your own motives, and I'm not going to let you use my Empire as a pawn in your
power struggles."
"And if the Angaraks win?" Aunt Pol said, "How do you plan to deal with Torak?"
"I'm not afraid of Torak."
"Have you ever met him?" Wolf asked.
"Obviously not. Listen, Belgarath, you and your daughter have never been
friendly to Tolnedra. You treated us like a defeated enemy after Vo Mimbre. Your
information's interesting, and I'll consider it in its proper perspective, but
Tolnedran policy is not dominated by Alorn preconceptions. Our economy relies
heavily on trade along the South Caravan Route. I'm not going to disrupt my
Empire simply because you happen to dislike Murgos."
"You're a fool then," Wolf said bluntly.
"You'd be surprised at how many people think so," the Emperor replied. "Maybe
you'll have better luck with my successor. If he's a Vorduvian or a Honeth, you
might even be able to bribe him, but Borunes don't take bribes."
"Or advice," Aunt Pol added.
"Only when it suits us, Lady Polgara," Ran Borune said.
"I think we've done everything we can here," Wolf decided.
A bronze door at the back of the garden slammed open, and a tiny girl with
flaming hair stormed through, her eyes ablaze. At first Garion thought she was a
child, but as she came closer, he realized that she was somewhat older than
that. Although she was very small, the short, sleeveless green tunic she wore
displayed limbs that were much closer to maturity. He felt a peculiar kind of
shock when he saw her - almost, but not quite, like recognition. Her hair was a
tumbled mass with long, elaborate curls cascading down over her neck and
shoulders, and it was a color that Garion had never seen before, a deep,
burnished red that seemed somehow to glow from within. Her skin was a golden
color that seemed, as she swept through the shadows of the trees near the gate,
to have an almost greenish cast to it. She was in a state verging on sheer rage.
"Why am I being kept prisoner here?" she demanded of the Emperor.
"What are you talking about?" Ran Borune asked.
"The legionnaires won't let me leave the palace grounds!"
"Oh," the Emperor said, "that."
"Exactly. That. "
"They're acting on my orders, Ce'Nedra," the Emperor told her.
"So they said. Tell them too stop it."
"No."
"No?" Her tone was incredulous. "No?" Her voice climbed several octaves. "What
do you mean, no?"
"It's too dangerous for you to be out in the city just now," the Emperor said
placatingly.
"Nonsense," she snapped. "I don't intend to sit around in this stuffy palace
just because you're afraid of your own shadow. I need some things from the
market."
"Send someone."
"I don't want to send anyone!" she shouted at him. "I want to go myself."
"Well, you can't," he said flatly. "Spend your time on your studies instead."
"I don't want to study," she cried. "Jeebers is a stuffy idiot, and he bores me.
I don't want to sit around talking about history or politics or any of the rest
of it. I just want an afternoon to myself."
"I'm sorry."
"Please, father," she begged, her tone dropping into a wheedling note. She took
hold of one of the folds of his gold mantle and twisted it around one of her
tiny fingers. "Please." The look she directed at the Emperor through her lashes
would have melted stone.
"Absolutely not," he said, refusing to look at her. "My order stands. You will
not leave the palace grounds."
"I hate you!" she cried. Then she ran from the garden in tears. "My daughter,"
the Emperor explained almost apologetically. "You can't imagine what it's like
having a child like that."
"Oh, I can imagine, all right," Mister Wolf said, glancing at Aunt Pol. She
looked back at him, her eyes challenging.
"Go ahead and say it, father," she told him. "I'm sure you won't be happy until
you do."
Wolf shrugged. "Forget it."
Ran Borune looked thoughtfully at the two of them. "It occurs to me that we
might be able to negotiate a bit here," he said, his eyes narrowing.
"What did you have in mind?" Wolf asked.
"You have a certain authority among the Alorns," the Emperor suggested.
"Some," Wolf admitted carefully.
"If you were to ask them, I'm sure they'd be willing to overlook one of the more
absurd provisions of the Accords of Vo Mimbre."
"Which one is that?"
"There's really no necessity for Ce'Nedra to journey to Riva, is there? I'm the
last emperor of the Borune Dynasty, and when I die, she won't be an Imperial
Princess anymore. Under the circumstances, I'd say that the requirement doesn't
really apply to her. It's nonsense anyway. The line of the Rivan King became
extinct thirteen hundred years ago, so there isn't going to be any bridegroom
waiting for her in the Hall of the Rivan King. As you've seen, Tolnedra's a very
dangerous place just now. Ce'Nedra's sixteenth birthday's only a year or so off,
and the date's well known. If I have to send her to Riva, half the assassins in
the Empire are going to be lurking outside the palace gates, waiting for her to
come out. I'd rather not take that kind of risk. If you could see your way clear
to speak to the Alorns, I might be able to make a few concessions regarding the
Murgos - restrictions on their numbers, closed areas, that sort of thing."
"No, Ran Borune," Aunt Pol said flatly. "Ce'Nedra will go to Riva. You've failed
to understand that the Accords are only a formality. If your daughter's the one
destined to become the bride of the Rivan King, no force on earth can prevent
her from being in the throne room at Riva on the appointed day. My father's
recommendations about the Murgos are only suggestions - for your own good. What
you choose to do about the matter is your affair."
"I think we've just about exhausted the possibilities of this conversation," the
Emperor stated coldly.
Two important-looking officials came into the garden and spoke briefly to Lord
Morin.
"Your Highness," the gray-haired chamberlain said deferentially, "the Minister
of Trade wanted to inform you that he's reached an excellent agreement with the
trade deputation from Rak Goska. The gentlemen from Cthol Murgos were most
accommodating."
"I'm delighted to hear it," Ran Borune said, throwing a meaningful look at
Mister Wolf.
"The contingent from Rak Goska would like to pay their respects before they
leave," Morin added.
"By all means," the Emperor said. "I'll be delighted to receive them here."
Morin turned and nodded shortly to the two officials near the gate. The
officials turned and spoke to someone outside, and the gate swung open.
Five Murgos strode into the garden. Their coarse black robes were hooded, but
the hoods were thrown back. The front of their robes were unclasped, and the
chain mail shirts they all wore gleamed in the sunlight. The Murgo in front was
a bit taller than the others, and his bearing indicated that he was the leader
of the deputation. A welter of images and partial memories flooded Garion's mind
as he looked at the scar-faced enemy he had known all his life. The strange pull
of the silent, hidden linkage between them touched him. It was Asharak.
Something brushed Garion's mind, tentative only - not the powerful force the
Murgo had directed at him in the dim hallway in Anheg's palace at Val Alorn. The
amulet under his tunic became very cold and yet seemed to burn at the same time.
"Your Imperial Highness," Asharak said, striding forward with a cold smile, "we
are honored to be admitted into your august presence." He bowed, his mail shirt
clinking.
Barak was holding Hettar's right arm firmly, and Mandorallen moved and took the
other.
"I'm overjoyed to see you again, worthy Asharak," the Emperor said. "I'm told
that an agreement has been reached."
"Beneficial to both sides, your Highness."
"The best kind of agreement," Ran Borune approved.
"Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos, sends greetings," Asharak said. "His Majesty
feels most keenly the desirability of cementing relations between Cthol Murgos
and Tolnedra. He hopes that one day he may call your Imperial Highness brother."
"We respect the peaceful intentions and legendary wisdom of Taur Urgas." The
Emperor smiled with a certain smugness.
Asharak looked around, his black eyes flat. "Well, Ambar," he said to Silk,
"your fortunes seem to have improved since we met last in Mingan's counting room
in Darine."
Silk spread his hands in an innocent-looking gesture. "The Gods have been kind most of them, anyway."
Asharak smiled briefly.
"You know each other?" the Emperor asked, a bit surprised.
"We've met, your Highnešs," Silk admitted.
"In another kingdom," Asharak added. He looked directly then at Mister Wolf.
"Belgarath," he said politely with a brief nod.
"Chamdar," the old man replied.
"You're looking well."
"Thank you."
"It seems that I'm the only stranger here," the Emperor said.
"Chamdar and I have known each other for a very long time," Mister Wolf told
him. He glanced at the Murgo with a faintly malicious twinkle in his eyes. "I
see that you've managed to recover from your recent indisposition."
Asharak's face flickered with annoyance, and he looked quickly at his shadow on
the grass as if for reassurance.
Garion remembered what Wolf had said atop the tor after the attack of the
Algroths - something about a shadow returning by an "indirect route." For some
reason the information that Asharak the Murgo and Chamdar the Grolim were the
same man did not particularly surprise him. Like a complex melody that had been
faintly out of tune, the sudden merging of the two seemed right somehow. The
knowledge clicked in his mind like a key in a lock.
"Someday you'll have to show me how you did that," Asharak was saying. "I found
the experience interesting. My horse had hysterics, however."
"My apologies to your horse."
"Why is it that I feel as if I'm missing about half of this conversation?" Ran
Borune asked.
"Forgive us, your Highness," Asharak said. "Ancient Belgarath and I are renewing
an old enmity. We've seldom had the opportunity to speak to each other with any
degree of civility." He turned and bowed politely to Aunt Pol. "My Lady Polgara.
You're as beautiful as ever." He eyed her with a deliberately suggestive stare.
"You haven't changed much either, Chamdar." Her tone was mild, even bland, but
Garion, who knew her so well, recognized immediately the deadly insult she had
just delivered to the Grolim.
"Charming," Asharak said with a faint smile.
"This is better than a play," the Emperor cried delightedly. "You people are
actually dripping with malice. I wish I'd had the opportunity to see the first
act."
"The first act was very long, your Highness," Asharak said, "and quite often
tedious. As you may have noticed, Belgarath sometimes gets carried away with his
own cleverness."
"I'm certain I'll be able to make up for that," Mister Wolf told him with a
slight smile. "I promise you that the last act will be extremely short,
Chamdar."
"Threats, old man?" Asharak asked. "I thought we'd agreed to be civilized."
"I can't recall when we ever agreed on anything," Wolf said. He turned to the
Emperor. "I think we'll leave now, Ran Borune," he said. "With your permission,
of course."
"Of course," the Emperor replied. "I'm pleased to have met youthough I still
don't believe in you, naturally. My skepticism, however, is theological, not
personal."
"I'm glad of that," Wolf said, and quite suddenly he grinned impishly at the
Emperor.
Ran Borune laughed.
"I look forward to our next meeting, Belgarath," Asharak said.
"I wouldn't if I were you," Wolf advised him, then turned and led the way out of
the Emperor's garden.
Chapter Seventeen
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when they emerged from the palace gate. The broad lawns were
green in the warm spring sunlight, and the cypress trees stirred in a faint
breeze.
"I don't think we want to stay in Tol Honeth too much longer," Wolf said.
"Do we leave now, then?" Mandorallen asked.
"There's something I have to do first," Wolf replied, squinting into the
sunlight. "Barak and his cousin will come along with me. The rest of you go on
back to Grinneg's house and wait there."
"We'll stop by the central market on our way," Aunt Pol told him. "There are a
few things I need."
"This isn't a shopping expedition, Pol."
"The Grolims already know we're here, father," she said, "so there's no point in
creeping about like sneak thieves, is there?"
He sighed. "All right, Pol."
"I knew you'd see it my way," she said.
Mister Wolf shook his head helplessly and rode off with Barak and Grinneg. The
rest of them rode down the hill from the palace toward the gleaming city below.
The streets at the foot of the hill were broad and lined on either side by
magnificent houses-each almost a palace in itself.
"The rich and the noble," Silk said. "In Tol Honeth, the closer you live to the
palace, the more important you are."
"'Tis oft times thus, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen observed. "Wealth and
position sometimes need the reassurance of proximity to the seat of power. By
ostentation and propinquity to the throne, small men are able to avoid facing
their own inadequacy."
"I couldn't have said it better myself," Silk said.
The central marketplace of Tol Honeth was a vast square filled with
bright-colored booths and stalls where a significant portion of the goods of the
world were on display. Aunt Pol dismounted, left her horse with one of the
Cherek guards, and moved busily from booth to booth, buying, it appeared, almost
everything in sight. Silk's face blanched often at her purchases, since he was
paying for them.
"Can't you talk to her?" the small man pleaded with Garion. "She's destroying
me."
"What makes you think she'd listen to me?" Garion asked.
"You could at least try, " Silk said desperately.
Three richly mantled men stood near the center of the market, arguing heatedly.
"You're mad, Haldor," one of them, a thin man with a snub nose, said agitatedly.
"The Honeths would strip the Empire for their own profit." His face was flushed,
and his eyes bulged dangerously.
"Would Kador of the Vorduvians be any better?" the stout man named Haldor
demanded. "You're the one who's mad, Radan. If we put Kador on the throne, he'll
grind us all under foot. There's such a thing as being too imperial."
"How dare you?" Radan almost screamed, his perspiring face growing darker.
"Grand Duke Kador is the only possible choice. I'd vote for him even if he
hadn't paid me." He flung his arms about wildly as he talked, and his tongue
seemed to stumble over his words.
"Kador's a pig," Haldor said flatly, carefully watching Radan as if gauging the
impact of his words. "An arrogant, brutal pig with no more right to the throne
than a mongrel dog. His great-grandfather bought his way into the House of
Vordue, and I'd sooner open a vein than bow to the offspring of a sneak thief
from the docks of Tol Vordue."
Radan's eyes almost started from his head at Haldor's calculated insults. He
opened his mouth several times as if trying to speak, but his tongue seemed
frozen with fury. His face turned purple, and he clawed at the air in front of
him. Then his body stiffened and began to arch backward.
Haldor watched him with an almost clinical detachment.
With a strangled cry, Radan toppled back onto the cobblestones, his arms and
legs threshing violently. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to foam
at the mouth as his convulsions became more violent. He began to bang his head
on the stones, and his twitching fingers clutched at his throat.
"Amazing potency," the third mantled man said to Haldor. "Where did you find
it?"
"A friend of mine recently made a voyage to Sthiss Tor," Haldor said, watching
Radan's convulsions with interest. "The beautiful part of it is that it's
completely harmless unless one gets excited. Radan wouldn't drink the wine until
I tasted it first to prove that it was safe."
"You've got the same poison in your own stomach?" the other man asked with
astonishment.
"I'm quite safe," Haldor said. "My emotions never get the best of me."
Radan's convulsions had grown weaker. His heels beat at the stones with a rapid
pattering sound; then he stiffened, gave a long, gurgling sigh, and died.
"I don't suppose you've got any of the drug left, do you?" Haldor's friend asked
thoughtfully. "I'd be willing to pay quite a bit for something like that."
Haldor laughed. "Why don't we go to my house, and we'll talk about it? Over a
cup of wine, perhaps?"
The other man threw him a startled glance; then he laughed too, although a bit
nervously. The two of them turned and walked away, leaving the dead man sprawled
on the stones.
Garion stared in horror at them and then at the black-faced corpse lying so
grotesquely twisted in the center of the marketplace. The Tolnedrans near the
body seemed to ignore its existence. "Why doesn't somebody do something?" he
demanded.
"They're afraid," Silk said. "If they show any concern, they might be mistaken
for partisans. Politics here in Tol Honeth are taken very seriously."
"Shouldn't someone notify the authorities?" Durnik suggested, his face pale and
his voice shaking.
"I'm sure it's already been taken care of," Silk said. "Let's not stand around
staring. I don't think we want to get involved in this sort of thing."
Aunt Pol came back to where they were standing. The two Cherek warriors from
Grinneg's house who had been accompanying her were loaded down with bundles and
both of them looked a little sheepish about it.
"What are you doing?" she asked Silk.
"We were just watching a bit of Tolnedran politics in action," Silk said,
pointing at the dead man in the center of the square.
"Poison?" she asked, noting Radan's contorted limbs.
Silk nodded. "A strange one. It doesn't seem to work unless the victim gets
excited."
"Athsat," she said with a grim nod.
"You've heard of it before?" Silk seemed surprised.
She nodded. "It's quite rare, and very expensive. I didn't think the Nyissans
would be willing to sell any of it."
"I think we should move away from here," Hettar suggested. "There's a squad of
legionnaires coming, and they might want to question any witnesses."
"Good idea," Silk said and led them toward the far side of the marketplace.
Near the row of houses that marked the edge of the square, eight burly men
carried a heavily veiled litter. As the litter approached, a slender, jeweled
hand reached languidly out from behind the veil and touched one of the porters
on the shoulder. The eight men stopped immediately and set the litter down.
"Silk," a woman's voice called from within the litter, "what are you doing back
in Tol Honeth?"
"Bethra?" Silk said. "Is that you?"
The veil was drawn back, revealing a lushly endowed woman lounging on crimson
satin cushions inside the litter. Her dark hair was elaborately curled with
strings of pearls woven into her tresses. Her pink silken gown clung to her
body, and golden rings and bracelets clasped her arms and fingers. Her face was
breathtakingly beautiful, and her long-lashed eyes were wicked. There was about
her a kind of overripeness and an almost overpowering sense of self indulgent
corruption. For some reason Garion felt himself blushing furiously.
"I thought you'd still be running," she said archly to Silk. "The men I sent
after you were very professional."
Silk bowed with an ironic little flourish. "They were quite good, Bethra," he
agreed with a wry grin. "Not quite good enough, but very good, actually. I hope
you didn't need them anymore."
"I always wondered why they didn't come back." She laughed. "I should have
known, of course. I hope you didn't take it personally."
"Certainly not, Bethra. It's just part of the profession, after all."
"I knew you'd understand," she said. "I had to get rid of you. You were
disrupting my entire plan."
Silk grinned wickedly. "I know," he gloated. "And after all you had to go
through to set it up - and with the Thullish ambassador, no less."
She made a disgusted face.
"Whatever happened to him?" Silk asked.
"He went swimming in the Nedrane."
"I didn't know that Thulls swam all that well."
"They don't - particularly not with large rocks tied to their feet. After you'd
destroyed the whole thing, I didn't really need him anymore, and there were some
things I didn't want him mentioning in certain quarters."
"You always were prudent, Bethra."
"What are you up to now?" she asked curiously.
Silk shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that."
"The succession?"
"Oh, no." He laughed. "I know better than to get involved in that. Which side
are you on?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Silk looked around, his eyes narrowing. "I could use some information, Bethra if you're free to talk about it, of course."
"About what, Silk?"
"The city seems to be awash with Murgos," Silk said. "If you're not presently
involved with them, I'd appreciate anything you could tell me."
She smiled at him archly. "And what would you be willing to pay?" she asked.
"Couldn't we just call it professional courtesy?"
She smiled wickedly at him; then she laughed. "Why not? I like you, Silk, and I
think I'll like you even more if you owe me a favor."
"I'll be your slave," he promised.
"Liar." She thought for a moment. "The Murgos have never really shown all that
much interest in trade," she said. "But a few years ago they began arriving in
twos and threes; and then late last summer, whole caravans started coming in
from Rak Goska."
"You think they want to influence the succession?" Silk asked.
"That would be my guess," she said. "There's a great deal of red gold in Tol
Honeth suddenly. My coin chests are full of it."
Silk grinned. "It all spends."
"It does indeed."
"Have they picked any one candidate?"
"Not that I've been able to determine. They seem to be divided into two
different factions, and there's quite a bit of antagonism between them."
"That could be a ruse, of course."
"I don't think so. I think the antagonism has to do with the quarrel between
Zedar and Ctuchik. Each side wants to get control of the next Emperor. They're
spending money like water."
"Do you know the one called Asharak?"
"Ah, that one," she replied. "The other Murgos are all afraid of him. At the
moment he seems to be working for Ctuchik, but I think he's playing some game of
his own. He owns the Grand Duke Kador out right, and Kador's closest to the
throne right now. That puts Asharak in a very powerful position. That's about
all I really know."
"Thank you, Bethra," Silk said respectfully.
"Are you planning to stay in Tol Honeth for long?" she asked.
"Unfortunately no."
"Pity. I was hoping you might be able to come by for a visit. We could talk over
old times. I don't have many close friends anymore - or dear enemies, like you."
Silk laughed dryly. "I wonder why," he said. "I don't imagine I could swim much
better than the Thullish ambassador did. You're a dangerous woman, Bethra."
"In more ways than one," she admitted, stretching languidly. "But your life's
not really in any danger from me, Silk - not anymore."
"It wasn't my life I was worried about." Silk grinned.
"That's another matter, of course," she admitted. "Don't forget that you owe me
a favor."
"I hunger for the opportunity to repay my debt," he said impudently.
"You're impossible." She laughed, then gestured to her porters, and they lifted
her litter to their shoulders. "Good-bye, Silk," she said.
"Good-bye, Bethra," he replied with a deep bow.
"Absolutely disgusting," Durnik said in a voice strangled with outrage as the
porters marched away with the litter. "Why is a woman like that even permitted
to stay in the city?"
"Bethra?" Silk asked in surprise. "She's the most brilliant and fascinating
woman in Tol Honeth. Men come from all over the world just for an hour or two
with her."
"For a price, of course," Durnik said.
"Don't misunderstand her, Durnik," Silk told him. "Her conversation's probably
more valuable than-" He coughed slightly with a quick glance at Aunt Pol.
"Really?" Durnik questioned in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
Silk laughed. "Durnik," he said, "I love you like a brother, but you're a
terrible prude, do you know that?"
"Leave him alone, Silk," Aunt Pol said firmly. "I like him exactly the way he
is."
"I'm only trying to improve him, Lady Polgara," Silk explained innocently.
"Barak's right about you, Prince Kheldar," she said. "You're a very bad man."
"It's all in the line of duty. I sacrifice my more delicate feelings for the
sake of my country."
"Of course!"
"Surely you don't imagine that I enjoy that sort of thing?"
"Why don't we just let it drop?" she suggested.
Grinneg, Barak, and Mister Wolf returned to Grinneg's house not long after the
others had arrived.
"Well?" Aunt Pol asked Wolf as the old man came into the room where they had
been waiting.
"He went south," Wolf said.
"South? He didn't turn east toward Cthol Murgos?"
"No," Wolf said. "He's probably trying to avoid a meeting with Ctuchik's people.
He'll look for a quiet place to slip across the border. Either that or he's
headed for Nyissa. Perhaps he's made some arrangement with Salmissra. We'll have
to follow him to find out."
"I met an old friend in the marketplace," Silk said from the chair in which he
lounged. "She tells me that Asharak's been involved in the politics of
succession. It appears that he's managed to buy the Grand Duke of Vordue. If the
Vorduvians get the throne, Asharak's going to have Tolnedra in the palm of his
hand."
Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "We're going to have to do
something about him sooner or later. He's beginning to make me just a little
tired."
"We could stop over for a day or so," Aunt Pol suggested. "Attend to it once and
for all."
"No," Wolf decided. "It's probably best not to do that sort of thing here in the
city. The business is likely to be a bit noisy, and Tolnedrans get excited about
things they can't understand. I'm sure he'll give us an opportunity later - in
some less-populated place."
"Do we leave now, then?" Silk asked.
"Let's wait until early morning," Wolf told him. "We'll probably be followed,
but if the streets are empty, it will make things a little more difficult for
them."
"I'll talk to my cook, then," Grinneg said. "The least I can do is send you on
your way with a good meal to help you face the road. Then, of course, there's
still that barrel of ale to be dealt with."
Mister Wolf smiled broadly at that, then caught Aunt Pol's reproving frown. "It
would only go flat, Pol," he explained. "Once it's broached, you have to drink
it up fairly quickly. It would be a shame to waste it, wouldn't it?"
Chapter Eighteen
THEY LEFT GRINNEG'S HOUSE before dawn the next morning, dressed once more in
their traveling clothes. They slipped quietly out a back gate and proceeded
through those narrow alleys and back streets Silk always seemed able to find.
The sky to the east was beginning to lighten when they reached the massive
bronze gate on the south end of the island.
"How long until the gate opens?" Mister Wolf asked one of the legionnaires.
"Not much longer," the legionnaire told him. "Just as soon as we can see the far
bank clearly."
Wolf grunted. He had grown quite mellow the evening before and he was obviously
troubled by a headache this morning. He dismounted, went to one of the
packhorses, and drank from a leather waterskin.
"That isn't going to help, you know," Aunt Pol told him a bit smugly. He chose
not to answer.
"I think it's going to be a lovely day today," she said brightly, looking first
at the sky and then at the men around her who slumped in their saddles in
attitudes of miserable dejection.
"You're a cruel woman, Polgara," Barak said sadly.
"Did you talk to Grinneg about that ship?" Mister Wolf asked.
"I think so," Barak replied. "I seem to remember saying something about it."
"It's fairly important," Wolf said.
"What's this?" Aunt Pol asked.
"I thought it might not be a bad idea to have a ship waiting off the mouth of
the River of the Woods," Wolf said. "If we have to go to Sthiss Tor, it would
probably be better to sail there rather than wade through the swamps in northern
Nyissa."
"That's a very good idea, actually," she approved. "I'm surprised it occurred to
you - considering your condition last night."
"Do you suppose we could talk about something else?" he asked somewhat
plaintively.
It grew imperceptibly lighter, and the command to open the gate came from the
watchtower on the wall above. The legionnaires slipped the iron bar and swung
the ponderous gate open. With Mandorallen at his side, Silk led them out through
the thick portal and across the bridge that spanned the dark waters of the
Nedrane.
By noon they were eight leagues south of Tol Honeth, and Mister Wolf had
somewhat regained his composure, though his eyes still seemed a bit sensitive to
the bright spring sunlight, and he winced now and then when a bird sang a bit
too near.
"Riders coming up behind," Hettar said.
"How many?" Barak asked.
"Two."
"Ordinary travelers, perhaps," Aunt Pol said.
The two figures on horseback appeared from around a bend behind them and
stopped. They spoke together for a moment or two and then came on, their bearing
somewhat cautious. They were a peculiar pair. The man wore a green Tolnedran
mantle, a garment not really suited for riding. His forehead was quite high, and
his hair was carefully combed to conceal his encroaching baldness. He was very
skinny, and his ears stuck out from the side of his head like flaps. His
companion appeared to be a child dressed in a hooded traveling cloak and with a
kerchief across her face to keep out the dust.
"Good day to you," the skinny man greeted them politely as the pair drew
alongside.
"Hello," Silk returned.
"Warm for so early in the year, isn't it?" the Tolnedran said.
"We noticed that," Silk agreed.
"I wonder," the skinny man asked, "do you have a bit of water you could spare?"
"Of course," Silk said. He looked at Garion and gestured toward the pack
animals. Garion dropped back and unhooked a leather waterskin from one of the
packs. The stranger removed the wooden stopper and carefully wiped the mouth of
the skin. He offered the bag to his companion. She removed her kerchief and
looked at the skin with an expression of perplexity.
"Like this, your-uh-my Lady," the man explained, taking the skin back, raising
it in both hands and drinking.
"I see," the girl said.
Garion looked at her more closely. The voice was familiar for some reason, and
there was something about her face. She was not a child, though she was very
small, and there was a kind of self indulged petulance about her tiny face.
Garion was almost certain he had seen her somewhere before.
The Tolnedran handed the waterskin back to her, and she drank, making a small
face at the resinous taste. Her hair was a purplish black, and there were faint
dark smears on the collar of her traveling cloak that indicated that the color
was not natural.
"Thank you, Jeebers," she said after she had drunk. "And thank you, sir," she
said to Silk.
Garion's eyes narrowed as a dreadful suspicion began to grow in his mind.
"Are you going far?" the skinny man asked Silk.
"Quite a ways," Silk answered. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a Drasnian merchant, and
I'm bound to the south with Sendarian woolens. This break in the weather
destroyed the market in Tol Honeth, so I thought I'd try Tol Rane. It's in the
mountains, and it's probably still cold there."
"You're taking the wrong road, then," the stranger said. "The road to Tol Rane
lies off to the east."
"I've had trouble on that road," Silk said glibly. "Robbers, you know. I thought
it'd be safer to go through Tol Borune."
"What a coincidence," the skinny man told him. "My pupil and I are bound for Tol
Borune ourselves."
"Yes," Silk admitted. "Quite a coincidence."
"Perhaps we could ride along together."
Silk looked doubtful.
"I don't see any reason why not," Aunt Pol decided before he could refuse.
"You're most kind, gracious lady," the stranger said. "I am Master Jeebers,
Fellow of the Imperial Society, a tutor by profession. Perhaps you've heard of
me."
"I can't really say so," Silk told him, "although that's not too remarkable,
since we're strangers here in Tolnedra."
Jeebers looked a bit disappointed. "I suppose that's true," he said. "This is my
pupil, Lady Sharell. Her father's a grand master merchant, the Baron Reldon. I'm
accompanying her to Tol Borune where she's to visit relatives."
Garion knew that was not true. The tutor's name had confirmed his suspicions.
They rode several miles further, with Jeebers babbling animatedly at Silk. He
spoke endlessly about his learning and continually prefaced his remarks with
references to important people who seemed to rely on his judgment. Although he
was tiresome, he appeared to be quite harmless. His pupil rode beside Aunt Pol,
saying very little.
"I think it's time we stopped for a bite to eat," Aunt Pol announced. "Would you
and your pupil care to join us, Master Jeebers? We have plenty."
"I'm quite overcome by your generosity," the tutor said. "We'd be delighted."
They stopped the horses near a small bridge that crossed a brook and led them
into the shade of a thick clump of willows not far from the road. Durnik built a
fire, and Aunt Pol began to unload her pots and kettles.
Master Jeebers' pupil sat in her saddle until the tutor quickly stepped over to
help her down. She looked at the slightly marshy ground near the brook
unenthusiastically. Then she glanced imperiously at Garion. "You-boy," she
called. "Fetch me a cup of fresh water."
"The brook's right there," he told her, pointing.
She stared at him in amazement. "But the ground's all muddy," she objected.
"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" he admitted and then quite deliberately
turned his back on her and went over to help his Aunt.
"Aunt Pol," he said after several moments of debating with himself.
"Yes, dear?"
"I don't think the Lady Sharell's who she says she is."
"Oh?"
"I'm not completely positive, but I think she's the Princess Ce'Nedra -the one
who came into the garden when we were at the palace."
"Yes, dear. I know."
"You know?"
"Of course. Would you hand me the salt, please?"
"Isn't it dangerous to have her with us?"
"Not really," she said. "I think we can manage it."
"Won't she be a lot of bother?"
"An Imperial Princess is supposed to be a lot of bother, dear." After they had
eaten a savory stew which seemed to Garion quite good but which their little
guest appeared to find distasteful, Jeebers began to approach a subject which
had obviously been on his mind since they had first met. "Despite the best
efforts of the legions, the roads are never entirely safe," the fussy man said.
"It's imprudent to travel alone, and the Lady Sharell's been entrusted to my
care. Since I'm responsible for her safety, I was wondering if we might travel
along with you. We wouldn't be any bother, and I'd be more than happy to pay for
whatever food we eat."
Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol.
"Of course," she said.
Silk looked surprised.
"There's no reason we can't travel together," she went on. "We're all going to
the same place, after all."
Silk shrugged. "Anything you say."
Garion knew the idea was a mistake so serious that it bordered on disaster.
Jeebers would not be a good traveling companion, and his pupil showed every sign
of quickly becoming intolerable. She was obviously accustomed to extensive
personal service, and her demands were probably made without thought. They were
still demands, however, and Garion knew immediately who was most likely to be
expected to attend to them. He got up and walked around to the far side of the
clump of willows.
The fields beyond the trees were pale green in the spring sunshine, and small
white clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Garion leaned against a tree and
gazed out at the fields without actually seeing them. He would not become a
servant - no matter who their little guest might be. He wished there were some
way he could get that firmly established right at the outset - before things got
out of hand.
"Have you lost your senses, Pol?" he heard Mister Wolf say somewhere behind him
among the trees. "Ran Borune's probably got every legion in Tolnedra looking for
her by now."
"This is my province, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol told him. "Don't interfere. I can
manage things so that we won't be bothered by the legions."
"We don't have the time to coddle her," the old man said. "I'm sorry, Pol, but
the child's going to be an absolute little monster. You saw the way she acted
toward her father."
"It's no great chore to break bad habits," she said, unconcerned.
"Wouldn't it be simpler just to arrange to have her taken back to Tol Honeth?"
"She's already run away once," Aunt Pol answered. "If we send her back, she'll
just run away again. I'll feel much more comfortable having her Imperial little
Highness where I can put my hands on her when I need her. When the proper time
comes, I don't want to have to take the world apart looking for her."
Wolf sighed. "Have it your way, Pol."
"Naturally."
"Just keep the brat away from me," he said. "She sets my teeth on edge. Do any
of the others know who she is?"
"Garion does."
"Garion? That's surprising."
"Not really," Aunt Pol said. "He's brighter than he looks."
A new emotion began to grow in Garion's already confused mind. Aunt Pol's
obvious interest in Ce'Nedra sent a sharp pang through him. With a certain
amount of shame, he realized that he was jealous of the attention the girl was
receiving.
In the days that followed, Garion's fears quickly proved to be wellfounded. An
inadvertant remark about Faldor's farm had revealed quite early to the princess
his former status as a scullery-boy, and she used the knowledge heartlessly to
browbeat him into a hundred stupid little errands every day. To make it all
worse, each time he tried to resist, Aunt Pol would firmly remind him to pay
more attention to his manners. Inevitably, he became quite surly about the whole
business.
The princess developed a story about the reason for her departure from Tol
Honeth as they rode south. The story changed daily, growing more wildly
implausible with every passing league. At first she seemed content to be on a
simple excursion to visit relatives; then she dropped dark hints about flight
from a marriage to an ugly old merchant. Next, there were even darker hints
about a plot to capture her and hold her for ransom. Finally, in a crowning
effort, she confided to them that the proposed kidnapping was politically
motivated - a part of some vast scheme to gain power in Tolnedra.
"She's an awful liar, isn't she?" Garion asked Aunt Pol when they were alone one
evening.
"Yes, dear," Aunt Pol agreed. "Lying is an art. A good lie shouldn't be
embellished so much. She'll need a lot more practice if she plans to make a
career of it."
Finally, about ten days after they had left Tol Honeth, the city of Tol Borune
came into sight in the afternoon sun.
"It looks like this is where we part company," Silk said to Jeebers with a
certain amount of relief.
"Aren't you going into the city?" Jeebers asked.
"I don't think so," Silk answered. "We don't really have any business to take
care of there, and the usual explanations and searches just waste time-not to
mention the expense of the bribes. We'll go around Tol Borune and pick up the
road to Tol Rane on the other side."
"We can ride a bit farther with you then," Ce'Nedra said quickly. "My relatives
live on an estate to the south of the city."
Jeebers stared at her in amazement.
Aunt Pol drew in her horse and looked at the small girl with a raised eyebrow.
"This seems like as good a place as any for us to have a little talk," she said.
Silk looked quickly at her and then nodded.
"I believe, little lady," Aunt Pol told the girl when they had all dismounted,
"that the time has come for you to tell us the truth."
"But I have," Ce'Nedra protested.
"Oh, come now, child," Aunt Pol said. "Those stories of yours have been very
entertaining, but you don't actually think anyone believed them, do you? Some of
us already know who you are, but I really think we should get it out in the
open."
"You know?" Ce'Nedra faltered.
"Of course, dear," Aunt Pol said. "Would you like to tell them, or shall I?"
Ce'Nedra's little shoulders drooped. "Tell them who I am, Master Jeebers," she
ordered quietly.
"Do you really think that's wise, your Ladyship?" Jeebers asked nervously.
"They already know anyway," she said. "If they were going to do anything to us,
they'd have done it a long time ago. We can trust them."
Jeebers drew in a deep breath and then spoke rather formally. "I have the honor
to introduce her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ce'Nedra, daughter to his
Imperial Majesty, Ran Borune XXIII, and the jewel of the House of Borune."
Silk whistled, and his eyes widened momentarily. The others showed similar signs
of amazement.
"The political situation in Tol Honeth had become far to volatile, too menacing,
for her Highness to remain safely in the capital," Jeebers went on. "The Emperor
commissioned me to convey his daughter secretly here to Tol Borune where the
members of the Borune family can protect her from the plots and machinations of
the Vordues, the Honeths, and the Horbites. I'm proud to say that I've managed
to execute my commission rather brilliantly - with your help, of course. I'll
mention your assistance in my report - a footnote, perhaps, or maybe even an
appendix."
Barak pulled at his beard, his eyes thoughtful. "An Imperial Princess travels
across half of Tolnedra with only a schoolmaster for protection?" he questioned.
"At a time when they're knifing and poisoning each other in the streets?"
"It does seem a trifle risky, doesn't it?" Hettar agreed.
"Did throe Emperor charge thee with this task in person?" Mandorallen asked
Jeebers.
"It wasn't necessary," Jeebers said stiffly, "His Highness has a great deal of
respect for my judgment and discretion. He knew that I'd be able to devise a
safe disguise and a secure mode of travel. The princess assured me of his
absolute confidence in me. It all had to be done in utmost secrecy, of course.
That's why she came to my chambers in the middle of the night to advise me of
his instructions and why we left the palace without telling anyone what we
were-" His voice trailed off, and he stared at Ce'Nedra in horror.
"You might as well tell him the truth, dear," Aunt Pol advised the little
princess. "I think he's guessed already."
Ce'Nedra's chin lifted arrogantly. "The orders came from me, Jeebers," she told
him. "My father had nothing to do with it." Jeebers went deathly pale and he
nearly collapsed.
"What idiocy made you decide to run away from your father's palace?" Barak
demanded of the tiny girl. "All Tolnedra's probably looking for you, and we're
caught right in the middle."
"Gently," Wolf said to the hulking Cherek. "She may be a princess, but she's
still a little girl. Don't frighten her."
"The question's to the point, though," Hettar observed. "If we're caught with an
Imperial Princess in our company, we'll all see the inside of a Tolnedran
dungeon." He turned to Ce'Nedra. "Do you have an answer, or were you just
playing games?"
She drew herself up haughtily. "I'm not accustomed to explaining my actions to
servants."
"We're going to have to clear up a few misconceptions before long, I see," Wolf
said.
"Just answer the question, dear," Aunt Pol told the girl. "Never mind who asked
it."
"My father had imprisoned me in the palace," Ce'Nedra said in a rather offhand
way, as if that explained everything. "It was intolerable, so I left. There's
another matter, too, but that's a matter of politics. You wouldn't understand."
"You'd probably be surprised at what we'd understand, Ce'Nedra," Mister Wolf
told her.
"I'm accustomed to being addressed as my Lady," she said tartly, "or as your
Highness."
"And I'm accustomed to being told the truth."
"I thought you were in charge," Ce'Nedra said to Silk.
"Appearances are deceiving," Silk observed blandly. "I'd answer the question."
"It's an old treaty," she said. "I didn't sign it, so I don't see why I should
be bound by it. I'm supposed to present myself in the throne room at Riva on my
sixteenth birthday."
"We know that," Barak said impatiently. "What's the problem?"
"I'm not going, that's all," Ce'Nedra announced. "I won't go to Riva, and no one
can make me go. The queen in the Wood of the Dryads is my kinswoman and she'll
give me sanctuary."
Jeebers had partially recovered. "What have you done?" he demanded, aghast. "I
undertook this with the clear understanding that I'd be rewarded - even
promoted. You've put my head on the block, you little idiot!"
"Jeebers!" she cried, shocked at his words.
"Let's get off the road a ways," Silk suggested. "We've obviously got quite a
bit to discuss, and we're likely to be interrupted here on the main highway."
"Probably a good idea," Wolf agreed. "Let's find some quiet place and set up for
the night. We'll decide what we're going to do and then we can start out fresh
in the morning."
They remounted and rode across the rolling fields toward a line of trees that
marked the course of a winding country lane about a mile away.
"How about there?" Durnik suggested, pointing at a broad oak which stood beside
the lane, its branches beginning to leaf out in the late afternoon sunlight.
"That should do," Wolf said.
It was pleasant in the dappled shade beneath the spreading limbs of the oak. The
lane was lined with low stone walls, mossy and cool. A stile stepped up over one
of the walls just there, and a path meandered across the field from it toward a
nearby pond, sparkling in the sun.
"We can put the fire down behind one of the walls," Durnik said. "It won't be
seen from the main road that way."
"I'll get some wood," Garion volunteered, looking at the dead limbs littering
the grass beneath the tree.
They had by now established a sort of routine in the setting up of a night's
encampment. The tents were erected, the horses watered and picketed, and the
fire was started all within the space of an hour. Then Durnik, who had noticed a
few telltale circles on the surface of the pond, heated an iron pin in the fire
and carefully hammered it into a hook.
"What's that for?" Garion asked him.
"I thought some fish might be good for supper," the smith said, wiping the hook
on the skirt of his leather tunic. He laid it aside then and lifted a second pin
out of the fire with a pair of tongs. "Would you like to try your luck too?"
Garion grinned at him.
Barak, who sat nearby combing the snarls out of his beard, looked up rather
wistfully. "I don't suppose you'd have time to make another hook, would you?" he
asked.
Durnik chuckled. "It only takes a couple minutes."
"We'll need bait," Barak said, getting up quickly. "Where's your spade?"
Not long afterward, the three of them crossed the field to the pond, cut some
saplings for poles and settled down to serious fishing.
The fish, it appeared, were ravenous and attacked the worm-baited hooks in
schools. Within the space of an hour nearly two dozen respectable-sized trout
lay in a gleaming row on the grassy bank of the pond.
Aunt Pol inspected their catch gravely when they returned as the sky turned rosy
overhead with the setting of the sun. "Very nice," she told them, "but you
forgot to clean them."
"Oh," Barak said. He looked slightly pained. "We thought that well, what I mean
is - as long as we caught them" He left it hanging.
"Go on," she said with a level gaze.
Barak sighed. "I guess we'd better clean them," he regretfully told Durnik and
Garion.
"You're probably right," Durnik agreed.
The sky had turned purple with evening, and the stars had begun to come out when
they sat down to eat. Aunt Pol had fried the trout to a crisp, golden brown, and
even the sulky little princess found nothing to complain about as she ate.
After they had finished, they set aside their plates and took up the problem of
Ce'Nedra and her flight from Tol Honeth. Jeebers had sunk into such abject
melancholy that he could offer little to the discussion, and Ce'Nedra adamantly
announced that even if they were to turn her over to the Borunes in the city,
she would run away again. In the end, they reached no conclusion.
"We're in trouble no matter what we do," Silk summed it all up ruefully. "Even
if we try to deliver her to her family, there are bound to be some embarrassing
questions, and I'm sure she can be counted on to invent a colorful story that
will put us in the worst possible light."
"We can talk about it some more in the morning," Aunt Pol said. Her placid tone
indicated that she had already made up her mind about something, but she did not
elaborate.
Shortly before midnight, Jeebers made his escape. They were all awakened by the
thudding of his horse's hooves as the panic-stricken tutor fled at a gallop
toward the walls of Tol Borune.
Silk stood in the flickering light of the dying fire, his face angry. "Why
didn't you stop him?" he asked Hettar, who had been standing watch.
"I was told not to," the leather-clad Algar said with a glance at Aunt Pol.
"It solves the only real problem we had," Aunt Pol explained. "The schoolmaster
would only have been excess baggage."
"You knew he was going to run away?" Silk asked.
"Naturally. I helped him to arrive at the decision. He'll go straight to the
Borunes and try to save his own skin by informing them that the princess ran
away from the palace on her own and that we have her now."
"You have to stop him then," Ce'Nedra said in a ringing voice. "Go after him!
Bring him back!"
"After all the trouble I went to persuading him to leave?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Don't be foolish."
"How dare you speak to me like that?" Ce'Nedra demanded. "You seem to forget who
I am."
"Young lady," Silk said urbanely, "I think you'd be amazed at how little
Polgara's concerned about who you are."
"Polgara?" Ce'Nedra faltered. "The Polgara? I thought you said that she was your
sister."
"I lied," Silk confessed. "It's a vice I have."
"You're not an ordinary merchant," the girl accused him.
"He's Prince Kheldar of Drasnia," Aunt Pol said. "The others have a similar
eminence. I'm sure you can see how little your title impresses us. We have our
own titles, so we know how empty they are."
"If you're Polgara, then he must be-" The princess turned to stare at Mister
Wolf, who had seated himself on the lowest step of the stile to pull on his
shoes.
"Yes," Aunt Pol said. "He doesn't really look the part, does he?"
"What are you doing in Tolnedra?" Ce'Nedra asked in a stunned voice. "Are you
going to use magic of some kind to control the outcome of the succession?"
"Why should we?" Mister Wolf said, getting to his feet. "Tolnedrans always seem
to think that their politics shake the whole world, but the rest of the world's
really not all that concerned about who gains the throne in Tol Honeth. We're
here on a matter of much greater urgency." He looked off into the darkness in
the direction of Tol Borune. "It will take Jeebers a certain amount of time to
convince the people in the city that he's not a lunatic," he said, "but it would
probably be a good idea if we left the area. I imagine we'd better stay away
from the main highway."
"That's no problem," Silk assured him.
"What about me?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"You wanted to go to the Wood of the Dryads," Aunt Pol told her. "We're going in
that direction anyway, so you'll stay with us. We'll see what Queen Xantha says
when we get you there."
"Am I to consider myself a prisoner then?" the princess asked stifliy.
"You can if it makes you feel better, dear," Aunt Pol said. She looked at the
tiny girl critically in the flickering firelight. "I'm going to have to do
something about your hair, though. What did you use for dye? It looks awful."
Chapter Nineteen
THEY MOVED RAPIDLY SOUTH for the next few days, traveling frequently at night to
avoid the mounted patrols of legionnaires who were beating the countryside in
their efforts to locate Ce'Nedra.
"Maybe we should have hung on to Jeebers," Barak muttered sourly after one
near-brush with the soldiers. "He's roused every garrison from here to the
border. It might have been better to have dropped him off in some isolated place
or something."
"That `or something' has a certain ring of finality to it, old friend," Silk
said with a sharp little grin.
Barak shrugged. "It's a solution to a problem."
Silk laughed. "You really should try not to let your knife do all your thinking
for you. That's the one quality we find least attractive in our Cherek cousins."
"And we find this compulsion to make clever remarks which seems to overwhelm our
Drasnian brothers now and then almost equally unattractive," Barak told him
coolly.
"Nicely put," Silk said with mock admiration.
They rode on, watchful, always ready to hide or to run. During those days they
relied heavily on Hettar's curious ability. Since the patrols searching for them
were inevitably mounted, the tall, hawk-faced Algar swept their surroundings
with his mind, searching for horses. The warnings he could thus provide usually
gave them sufficient notice of the approach of the patrols.
"What's it like?" Garion asked him one cloudy midmorning as they rode along a
seldom-used and weed-grown track to which Silk had led them. "I mean being able
to hear a horse's thoughts?"
"I don't think I can describe it exactly," Hettar answered. "I've always been
able to do it, so I can't imagine what it's like not doing it. There's a kind of
reaching-out in a horse's mind - a sort of inclusiveness. A horse seems to think
'we' instead of 'I'. I suppose it's because in their natural condition they're
members of a herd. After they get to know you, they think of you as a herd mate.
Sometimes they even forget that you're not a horse." He broke off suddenly.
"Belgarath," he announced sharply, "there's another patrol coming just beyond
that hill over there. Twenty or thirty of them."
Mister Wolf looked about quickly. "Have we got time to reach those trees?" He
pointed at a thick stand of scrub maple about a half mile ahead.
"If we hurry."
"Then run!" Wolf ordered, and they all kicked their horses into a sudden burst
of speed. They reached the trees just as the first few raindrops of the spring
shower that had been threatening all morning pattered on the broad leaves. They
dismounted and pushed in among the springy saplings, worming their way back out
of sight, leading their horses.
The Tolnedran patrol came over the hilltop and swept down into the shallow
valley. The captain in charge of the legionnaires pulled in his horse not far
from the stand of maples and dispersed his men with a series of sharp commands.
They moved out in small groups, scouting the weedy road in both directions and
surveying the surrounding countryside from the top of the next rise. The officer
and a civilian in a gray riding cloak remained behind, sitting their horses
beside the track.
The captain squinted distastefully up into the sprinkling rain. "It's going to
be a wet day," he said, dismounting and pulling his crimson cloak tighter around
him.
His companion also swung down and turned so that the party hiding among the
maples was able to see his face. Garion felt Hettar tense suddenly. The man in
the cloak was a Murgo.
"Over here, Captain," the Murgo said, leading his horse into the shelter
provided by the outspreading limbs of the saplings at the edge of the stand.
The Tolnedran nodded and followed the man in the riding cloak. "Have you had a
chance to think over my offer?" the Murgo asked.
"I thought it was only speculation," the captain replied. "We don't even know
that these foreigners are in this quadrant."
"My information is that they're going south, captain," the Murgo told him. "I
think you can be quite certain that they're somewhere in your quadrant."
"There's no guarantee that we'll find them, though," the captain said. "And even
if we do, it'd be very difficult to do what you propose."
"Captain," the Murgo explained patiently, "it's for the safety of the princess,
after all. If she's returned to Tol Honeth, the Vorduvians are going to kill
her. You've read those documents I brought you."
"She'll be safe with the Borunes," the captain said. "The Vorduvians aren't
going to come into Southern Tolnedra after her."
"The Borunes are only going to turn her over to her father. You're a Borune
yourself. Would you defy an Emperor of your own house?" The captain's face was
troubled.
"Her only hope of safety is with the Horbites," the Murgo pressed.
"What guarantees do I have that she'll be safe with them?"
"The best guarantee of all - politics. The Horbites are doing everything in
their power to block the Grand Duke Kador on his march to the throne. Since he
wants the princess dead, the Horbites naturally want to keep her alive. It's the
only way really to insure her safety - and you become a wealthy man in the
process." He jingled a heavy purse suggestively.
The captain still looked doubtful.
"Suppose we double the amount," the Murgo said in a voice that almost purred.
The captain swallowed hard. "It is for her safety, isn't it?"
"Of course it is."
"It's not as if I were betraying the House of Borune."
"You're a patriot, Captain," the Murgo assured the officer with a cold smile.
Aunt Pol was holding Ce'Nedra's arm quite firmly as they crouched together among
the trees. The tiny girl's face was outraged, and her eyes were blazing.
Later, after the legionnaires and their Murgo friend had departed, the princess
exploded. "How dare they?" she raged. "And for money!"
"That Tolnedran politics for you," Silk said as they led their horses out of the
stand of saplings into the drizzly morning.
"But he's a Borune," she protested, "a member of my own family."
"A Tolnedran's first loyalty is to his purse," Silk told her. "I'm surprised you
haven't discovered that by now, your Highness."
A few days later they topped a hill and saw the Wood of the Dryads spreading
like a green smudge on the horizon. The showers had blown off, and the sun was
very bright.
"We'll be safe once we reach the Wood," the princess told them. "The legions
won't follow us there."
"What's to stop them?" Garion asked her.
"The treaty with the Dryads," she said. "Don't you know anything?"
Garion resented that.
"There's no one about," Hettar reported to Mister Wolf. "We can go now or wait
for dark."
"Let's make a run for it," Wolf said. "I'm getting tired of dodging patrols."
They started down the hill at a gallop toward the forest lying ahead of them.
There seemed to be none of the usual brushy margin which usually marked the
transition from fields to woodlands. The trees simply began. When Wolf led them
beneath those trees, the change was as abrupt as if they had suddenly gone
inside a house. The Wood itself was a forest of incredible antiquity. The great
oaks spread so broadly that the sky was almost never visible. The forest floor
was mossy and cool, and there was very little undergrowth. It seemed to Garion
that they were all quite tiny under the vast trees, and there was a strange,
hushed quality about the wood. The air was very still, and there was a hum of
insects and, from far overhead, a chorus of birdsong.
"Strange," Durnik said, looking around, "I don't see any sign of woodcutters."
"Woodcutters?" Ce'Nedra gasped. "In here? They wouldn't dare come into this
wood."
"The wood is inviolate, Durnik," Mister Wolf explained. "The Borune family has a
treaty with the Dryads. No one has touched a tree here for over three thousand
years."
"This is a curious place," Mandorallen said, looking around a bit uncomfortably.
"Me thinks I feel a presence here - a presence not altogether friendly."
"The Wood is alive," Ce'Nedra told him. "It doesn't really like strangers - but
don't worry, Mandorallen, you're safe as long as you're with me." She sounded
quite smug about it.
"Are you sure the patrols won't follow us?" Durnik asked Mister Wolf. "Jeebers
knew we were coming here, after all, and I'm sure he told the Borunes."
"The Borunes won't violate their treaty with the Dryads," Wolf assured him. "Not
for any reason."
"I've never known of a treaty a Tolnedran wouldn't step around if it was to his
advantage." Silk spoke skeptically.
"This one is a bit different," Wolf said. "The Dryads gave one of their
princesses to a young noble of the House of Borune. She became the mother of the
Emperor of the First Borune Dynasty. The fortunes of the Borunes are very
intimately tied up with the treaty. They're not going to gamble with that - not
for any reason."
"What exactly is a Dryad?" Garion asked. The strange sense of a presence, an
awareness in the wood, made him want to talk to cover the oppressive, watchful
silence.
"A small group," Mister Wolf said. "Quite gentle. I've always rather liked them.
They aren't human, of course, but that's not all that important."
"I'm a Dryad," Ce'Nedra said rather proudly.
Garion stared at her.
"Technically she's right," Wolf said. "The Dryad line seems to breed true on the
female side of the House of Borune. That's one of the things that keeps the
family honest about the treaty - all those wives and mothers who'd pack up and
leave if it were ever broken."
"She looks human," Garion objected, still staring at the princess.
"The Dryads are so closely related to humans that the differences are hardly
significant," Wolf said. "That probably explains why they didn't go mad like the
other monsters did when Torak cracked the world."
"Monsters!" Ce'Nedra protested loudly.
"Your pardon, Princess," Wolf apologized. "It's an Ulgo term used to describe
the non-humans who supported Gorim at Prolgu when he met with the God UL."
"Do I look like a monster to you?" she demanded, tossing her head angrily.
"A poor choice of words, perhaps," Wolf murmured. "Forgive me."
"Monsters indeed!" Ce'Nedra fumed.
Wolf shrugged. "There's a stream not far ahead, if I remember right. We'll stop
there and wait until word of our arrival reaches Queen Xantha. It's not a good
idea to go into the territory of the Dryads without the queen's permission. They
can get quite nasty if they're provoked."
"I thought you said they were gentle," Durnik said.
"Within reason," Wolf told him. "But it's not a good idea to irritate people who
communicate with trees when you're in the middle of a forest. Unpleasant things
have a way of happening." He frowned. "That reminds me. You'd better stow your
axe away out of sight. Dryads have strong feelings about axes - and fires.
They're most unreasonable about fire. We'll have to keep our fires small and
only for cooking."
They rode in under a colossal oak beside a sparkling stream purling over mossy
rocks, dismounted and set up their dun-colored tents. After they had eaten,
Garion wandered around feeling bored. Mister Wolf was napping, and Silk had
lured the others into a dice game. Aunt Pol had seated the Princess on a log and
was stripping the purple dye from her hair.
"If you don't have anything else to do, Garion," she said, "why don't you go
bathe?"
"Bathe?" he asked. "Where?"
"I'm sure you'll find a pool somewhere along the stream," she said, carefully
lathering Ce'Nedra's hair.
"You want me to bathe in that water? Aren't you afraid I'll catch cold?"
"You're a healthy boy, dear," she told him, "but a very dirty one. Now go wash."
Garion gave her a dark look and went to one of the packs for clean clothing,
soap, and a towel. Then he stamped off upstream, grumbling at every step.
Once he was alone under the trees, he felt even more strongly that peculiar
sense of being watched. It was not anything definable. There seemed to be
nothing specific about it, but rather it felt as if the oaks themselves were
aware of him and were passing information about his movements among themselves
with a kind of vegetative communication he could not begin to understand. There
seemed to be no menace in it, merely a kind of watchfulness.
Some distance from the tents he found a fairly large pool where the stream
dropped in a waterfall from the rocks above. The water in the pool was very
clear, and he could see the bright pebbles on the bottom and several large trout
that eyed him warily. He tested the water with his hand and shuddered. He
considered subterfuge - a quick splashing of water on his body and a bit of soap
on the more obvious smudgesbut on reflection, he gave up the notion. Aunt Pol
would settle for nothing less than a complete bath. He sighed bitterly and began
to take oft his clothing.
The first shock was awful, but after a few minutes he found that he could bear
it. In a short time it even became exhilarating. The waterfall provided a
convenient means for rinsing off the soap, and before long he found that he was
actually enjoying himself.
"You're making an awful lot of noise," Ce'Nedra said, standing on the bank and
appraising him quite calmly.
Garion immediately dove to the bottom of the pool.
Unless one was a fish, however, one could hardly remain underwater indefinitely.
After about a minute, he struggled to the surface and popped his head out of the
water, gasping and sputtering.
"Whatever are you doing?" Ce'Nedra asked. She was wearing a short white tunic,
sleeveless and belted at the waist, and open sandals with laces that
crisscrossed her slender ankles and calves and tied just below her knees. She
carried a towel in one hand.
"Go away," Garion spluttered.
"Don't be so silly," she said, sitting down on a large stone and beginning to
unlace her sandals. Her coppery hair was still damp and tumbled in a heavy mass
about her shoulders.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to bathe," she said. "Are you going to be much longer?"
"Go someplace else," Garion cried, starting to shiver, but remaining
determinedly crouched over in the water with only his head sticking out.
"This place looks just fine," she said. "How's the water?"
"Cold," he chattered, "but I'm not coming out until you go away."
"Don't be such a ninny," she told him.
He shook his head stubbornly, his face flaming.
She sighed with exasperation. "Oh, very well," she said. "I won't look, but I
think you're being very silly. At the baths in Tol Honeth, no one thinks
anything at all about such things."
"This isn't Tol Honeth," he told her pointedly.
"I'll turn my back, if that'll make you feel better," she said, getting up and
standing with her back to the pool.
Not entirely trusting her, Garion crept from the pool and, still dripping,
jerked on his drawers and hose. "All right," he called, "you can have the pool
now." He mopped at his streaming face and hair with his towel. "I'm going back
to the tents."
"The Lady Polgara says that you're to stay with me," she said, calmly untying
the cord about her waist.
"Aunt Pol said what?" he demanded, terribly shocked.
"You're supposed to stay with me to protect me," she told him. She took hold of
the hem of her tunic, obviously preparing to take it off.
Garion spun about and stared determinedly at the trees. His ears flamed, and his
hands trembled uncontrollably.
She laughed a small, silvery laugh, and he could hear splashing as she entered
the pool. She squealed from the shock of the cold water, and then there was more
splashing.
"Bring me the soap," she commanded.
Without thinking, he bent to pick up the soap and caught one brief glimpse of
her standing waist-deep in the water before he shut his eyes tightly. He backed
toward the pool, his eyes closed and the hand holding the soap thrust out
awkwardly behind him.
She laughed again and took the soap from his hand.
After what seemed an eternity, the princess completed her bath, emerged from the
pool, dried herself and put her clothes back on. Garion kept his eyes firmly
shut the entire time.
"You Sendars have such curious notions," she said as they sat together in the
sun-warmed glade beside the pool. She was combing her deep red hair, her head
inclined to one side and the comb pulling down through the thick, damp tangles.
"The baths in Tol Honeth are open to all, and athletic contests are always
conducted without clothing. Just last summer I myself ran against a dozen other
girls in the Imperial Stadium. The spectators were most appreciative."
"I can imagine," Garion said dryly.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing at the amulet resting against his bare chest.
"My grandfather gave it to me last Erastide," Garion answered.
"Let me see." She held out her hand.
He leaned forward.
"Take it off so I can see it," she ordered.
"I'm not supposed to take it off," he told her. "Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol say
I'm never supposed to take it off for any reason. I think there's a spell of
some kind on it."
"What a strange idea," she remarked as she bent to examine the amulet. "They
aren't really sorcerers, are they?"
"Mister Wolf is seven thousand years old," Garion said. "He knew the God Aldur.
I've seen him make a tree grow from a small twig in a matter of minutes and set
rocks on fire. Aunt Pol cured a blind woman with a single word, and she can turn
herself into an owl."
"I don't believe in such things," Ce'Nedra told him. "I'm sure there's another
explanation."
Garion shrugged and pulled on his linen shirt and brown tunic. He shook his head
and raked his fingers through his still-damp hair.
"You're making an awful mess of it," she observed critically. "Here." She stood
up and stepped behind him. "Let me do it." She put the comb to his hair and
began pulling it through carefully. "You have nice hair for a man," she said.
"It's just hair," he said indifferently.
She combed in silence for a moment or two, then took his chin in her hand,
turned his head and looked at him critically. She touched his hair at the sides
a time or two until it was arranged to her satisfaction. "That's better," she
decided.
"Thank you." He was a bit confused by the change in her.
She sat down again on the grass, clasped her arms around one knee and gazed at
the sparkling pool. "Garion," she said finally.
"Yes?"
"What's it like to grow up as an ordinary person?"
He shrugged. "I've never been anything but an ordinary person," he told her, "so
I wouldn't know what to compare it to."
"You know what I mean. Tell me about where you grew up - and what you did and
all."
So he told her about Faldor's farm, about the kitchen and Durnik's smithy and
Doroon and Rundorig and Zubrette.
"You're in love with Zubrette, aren't you?" She asked it almost accusingly.
"I thought I was, but so much has happened since we left the farm that sometimes
I can't even remember what she looks like. I think I could do without being in
love anyway. From what I've seen of it, it's pretty painful most of the time."
"You're impossible," she said, and then she smiled at him, her little face
framed in the blazing mass of her sun-touched hair.
"Probably," he admitted. "All right, now you tell me what it's like to grow up
as a very special person."
"I'm not that special."
"You're an Imperial Princess," he reminded her. "I'd call that pretty special."
"Oh, that," she said, and then giggled. "You know, sometimes since I joined you
people, I almost forget that I'm an Imperial Princess."
"Almost," he said with a smile, "but not quite."
"No," she agreed, "not quite." She looked out across the pool again. "Most of
the time being a princess is very boring. It's all ceremonies and formalities.
You have to stand around most of the time listening to speeches or receiving
state visitors. There are guards around all the time, but sometimes I sneak away
so I can be by myself. It makes them furious." She giggled again, and then her
gaze turned pensive. "Let me tell your fortune," she said, taking his hand.
"Can you tell fortunes?" Garion asked.
"It's only make-believe," she admitted. "My maids and I play at it sometimes. We
all promise each other high-born husbands and many children." She turned his
hand over and looked at it. The silvery mark on his palm was very plain now that
the skin was clean. "Whatever is that?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"It's not a disease, is it?"
"No," he said. "It has always been there. I think it has something to do with my
family. Aunt Pol doesn't like to have people see it for some reason, so she
tries to keep it hidden."
"How could you hide something like that?"
"She finds things for me to do that keep my hands dirty most of the time."
"How strange," she said. "I have a birthmark too - right over my heart. Would
you like to see it?" She took hold of the neck of her tunic.
"I'll take your word for it," Garion told her, blushing furiously.
She laughed a silvery, tinkling little laugh. "You're a strange boy, Garion.
You're not at all like the other boys I've met."
"They were Tolnedrans probably," Garion pointed out. "I'm a Sendar - or at least
that's the way I was raised - so there are bound to be differences."
"You sound as if you're not sure what you are."
"Silk says I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He says he isn't sure exactly what I
am, and that's very odd. Silk can recognize anybody for what he is immediately.
Your father thought I was a Rivan."
"Since the Lady Polgara's your Aunt and Belgarath's your Grandfather, you're
probably a sorcerer," Ce'Nedra observed.
Garion laughed. "Me? That's silly. Besides, the sorcerers aren't a race - not
like Chereks or Tolnedrans or Rivans. It's more like a profession, I think sort of like being a lawyer or a merchant - only there aren't any new ones. The
sorcerers are all thousands of years old. Mister Wolf says that maybe people
have changed in some way so that they can't become sorcerers anymore."
Ce'Nedra had leaned back and was resting on her elbows, looking up at him.
"Garion?"
"Yes?"
"Would you like to kiss me?"
Garion's heart started to pound.
Then Durnik's voice called to them from not far away, and for one flaming
instant Garion hated his old friend.
Chapter Twenty
"MISTRESS POL SAYS THAT IT'S TIME for you to come back to the tents," Durnik
told them when he reached the glade. There was a faint hint of amusement on his
plain, dependable face, and he looked knowingly at the two of them.
Garion blushed and then grew angry with himself for blushing. Ce'Nedra, however,
showed no concern at all.
"Have the Dryads come yet?" she asked, getting to her feet and brushing the
grass from the back of her tunic.
"Not yet," Durnik answered. "Wolf says that they should find us soon. There
seems to be some kind of storm building up to the south, and Mistress Pol
thought the two of you ought to come back."
Garion glanced at the sky and saw a layer of inky clouds moving up from the
south, staining the bright blue sky as they rolled ponderously northward. He
frowned. "I've never seen clouds like that, have you, Durnik?"
Durnik looked up. "Strange," he agreed.
Garion rolled up the two wet towels, and they started back down the stream. The
clouds blotted out the sun, and the woods became suddenly very dark. The sense
of watchfulness was still there, that wary awareness they had all felt since
they had entered the wood, but now there was something else as well. The great
trees stirred uneasily, and a million tiny messages seemed to pass among the
rustling leaves.
"They're afraid," Ce'Nedra whispered. "Something's frightening them."
"What?" Durnik asked.
"The trees - they're afraid of something. Can't you feel it?"
He stared at her in perplexity.
Far above them the birds suddenly fell silent, and a chill breeze began to blow,
carrying with it a foul reek of stagnant water and rotting vegetation.
"What's that smell?" Garion asked, looking about nervously.
"Nyissa is south of here," Ce'Nedra said. "It's mostly swamps."
"Is it that close?" Garion asked.
"Not really," she said with a small frown. "It must be sixty leagues or more."
"Would a smell carry that far?"
"It's not likely," Durnik said. "At least it wouldn't be in Sendaria."
"How far is it to the tents?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"About a half-mile," Durnik answered.
"Maybe we should run," she suggested.
Durnik shook his head. "The ground's uneven," he said, "and running in bad
light's dangerous. We can walk a bit faster, though." They hurried on through
the gathering gloom. The wind began to blow harder, and the trees trembled and
bent with its force. The strange fear that seemed to permeate the wood grew
stronger.
"There's something moving over there," Garion whispered urgently and pointed at
the dark trees on the other side of the stream.
"I don't see anything," Ce'Nedra said.
"There, just beyond the tree with the large white limb. Is it a Dryad?"
A vague shape slid from tree to another in the half light. There was something
chillingly wrong with the figure. Ce'Nedra stared at it with revulsion. "It's
not a Dryad," she said. "It's something alien."
Durnik picked up a fallen limb and gripped it like a cudgel with both hands.
Garion looked quickly around and saw another limb. He too armed himself.
Another figure shambled between two trees, a bit closer this time. "We'll have
to chance it," Durnik said grimly. "Be careful, but run. Get the others. Now
go!"
Garion took Ce'Nedra's hand, and they started to run along the streambank,
stumbling often. Durnik lagged farther and father behind, his two-handed club
swinging warningly about him.
The figures were now all around them, and Garion felt the first surges of panic.
Then Ce'Nedra screamed. One of the figures had risen from behind a low bush
directly in front of them. It was large and ill-shaped, and there was no face on
the front of its head. Two eye-holes stared vacantly as it shambled forward with
its half-formed hands reaching out for them. The entire figure was a dark gray
mud color, and it was covered with rotting, stinking moss that adhered to its
oozing body.
Without thinking, Garion thrust Ce'Nedra behind him and leaped to the attack.
The first blow of his club struck the creature solidly in the side, and the club
merely sank into the body with no visible effect. One of the outstretched hands
touched his face, and he recoiled from that slimy touch with revulsion.
Desperately he swung again and struck the thing solidly on the forearm. With
horror he saw the arm break off at the elbow. The creature paused to pick up the
still-moving arm.
Ce'Nedra screamed again, and Garion spun about. Another of the mud-men had come
up behind her and had grasped her about the waist with both arms. It was
starting to turn, lifting the struggling princess from the ground when Garion
swung his club with all his might. The blow was not aimed at head or back, but
rather at the ankles.
The mud-man toppled backward with both of its feet broken off. Its grip about
Ce'Nedra's waist, however, did not loosen as it fell.
Garion jumped forward, discarding his club and drawing his dagger. The substance
of the thing was surprisingly tough. Vines and dead twigs were encased in the
clay which gave it its shape. Feverishly, Garion cut away one of the arms and
then tried to pull the screaming princess free. The other arm still clung to
her. Almost sobbing with the need to hurry, Garion started hacking at the
remaining arm.
"Look out!" Ce'Nedra shrieked. "Behind you!"
Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. The first mud-man was reaching for him.
He felt a cold grip about his ankle. The arm he had just severed had inched its
way across the ground and grasped him.
"Garion!" Barak's voice roared from a short distance off.
"Over here!" Garion shouted. "Hurry!"
There was a crashing in the bushes, and the great, red-bearded Cherek appeared,
sword in hand, with Hettar and Mandorallen close behind. With a mighty swing,
Barak cut off the head of the first mudman. It sailed through the air and landed
with a sickening thump several yards away. The headless creature turned and
groped blindly, trying to put its hands on its attacker. Barak paled visibly and
then chopped away both outstretched arms. Still the thing shambled forward.
"The legs," Garion said quickly. He bent and hacked at the clay hand about his
ankle.
Barak lopped off the mud-man's legs, and the thing fell. The dismembered pieces
crawled toward him.
Other mud-men had appeared, and Hettar and Mandorailen were laying about them
with their swords, filling the air with chunks and pieces of living clay.
Barak bent and ripped away the remaining arm which held Ce'Nedra.
Then he jerked the girl to her feet and thrust her at Garion. "Get her back to
the tents!" he ordered. "Where's Durnik?"
"He stayed behind to hold them off," Garion said.
"We'll go help him," Barak said. "Run!"
Ce'Nedra was hysterical, and Garion had to drag her to the tents.
"What is it?" Aunt Pol demanded.
"Monsters out there in the woods," Garion said, pushing Ce'Nedra at her.
"They're made out of mud, and you can't kill them. They've got Durnik." He dove
into one of the tents and emerged a second later with his sword in his hand and
fire in his brain.
"Garion!" Aunt Pol shouted, trying to disentangle herself from the sobbing
princess. "What are you doing?"
"I've got to help Durnik," he said.
"You stay where you are."
"No!" he shouted. "Durnik's my friend." He dashed back toward the fight,
brandishing his sword.
"Garion! Come back here!"
He ignored her and ran through the dark woods.
The fray was raging about a hundred yards from the tents. Barak, Hettar and
Mandorallen were systematically chopping the slime-covered mud-men into chunks,
and Silk darted in and out of the melee, his short sword leaving great gaping
holes in the thick, moss-covered monsters. Garion plunged into the fight, his
ears ringing and a kind of desperate exultation surging through him.
And then Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol were there with Ce'Nedra hovering ashen-faced
and trembling behind them. Wolf's eyes blazed, and he seemed to tower over them
all as he gathered his will. He thrust one hand forward, palm up. "Fire!" he
commanded, and a sizzling bolt of lightning shot upward from his hand into the
whirling clouds overhead. The earth trembled with the violence of the shattering
thunderclap. Garion reeled at the force of the roaring in his mind.
Aunt Pol raised her hand. "Water!" she said in a powerful voice. The clouds
burst open, and rain fell so heavily that it seemed that the air itself had
turned to water.
The mud-men, still mindlessly stumbling forward, began to ooze and dissolve in
the thundering downpour. With a kind of sick fascination, Garion watched them
disintegrate into sodden lumps of slime and rotten vegetation, surging and
heaving as the pounding rain destroyed them.
Barak reached forward with his dripping sword and tentatively poked at the
shapeless lump of clay that had been the head of one of their attackers. The
lump broke apart, and a coiled snake unwound from its center. It raised itself
as if to strike, and Barak chopped it in two.
Other snakes began to appear as the mud which had encased them dissolved in the
roaring deluge.
"That one," Aunt Pol said, pointing at a dull green reptile struggling to free
itself from the clay. "Fetch it for me, Garion."
"Me?" Garion gasped, his flesh crawling.
"I'll do it," Silk said. He picked up a forked stick and pinned the snake's head
down with it. Then he carefully took hold of the wet skin at the back of the
serpent's neck and lifted the twisting reptile.
"Bring it here," Aunt Pol ordered, wiping the water from her face. Silk carried
the snake to her and held it out. The forked tongue flickered nervously, and the
dead eyes fixed on her.
"What does this mean?" she demanded of the snake.
The serpent hissed at her. Then in a voice that was a sibilant whisper it
replied, "That, Polgara, is the affair of my mistress."
Silk's face blanched as the dripping snake spoke, and he tightened his grip.
"I see," Aunt Pol said.
"Abandon this search," the snake hissed. "My mistress will allow you to go no
further."
Aunt Pol laughed scornfully. "Allow?" she said. "Your mistress hasn't the power
to allow me anything."
"My mistress is the queen of Nyissa," the snake said in its whispering hiss.
"Her power there is absolute. The ways of the serpent are not the ways of men,
and my mistress is queen of the serpents. You will enter Nyissa at your own
peril. We are patient and not afraid. We will await you where you least expect
us. Our sting is a small injury, scarce noted, but it is death."
"What's Salmissra's interest in this matter?" Aunt Pol asked.
The serpent's flickering tongue darted at her. "She has not chosen to reveal
that to me, and it is not in my nature to be curious. I have delivered my
message and already received my reward. Now do with me as you wish."
"Very well," Aunt Pol said. She looked coldly at the snake, her face streaming
in the heavy rain.
"Shall I kill it?" Silk asked, his face set and his fingers white-knuckled from
the strain of holding the thick-coiling reptile.
"No," she said quietly. "There's no point in destroying so excellent a
messenger." She fixed the snake with a flinty look. "Return with these others to
Salmissra," she said. "Tell her that if she interferes again, I'll come after
her, and the deepest slime-pit in all Nyissa won't hide her from my fury."
"And my reward?" the snake asked.
"You have your life as a reward," she said.
"That's true," the serpent hissed. "I will deliver your message, Polgara."
"Put it down," Aunt Pol told Silk.
The small man bent and lowered his arm to the ground. The snake uncoiled from
about his arm, and Silk released it and jumped back. The snake glanced once at
him, then slithered away.
"I think that's enough rain, Pol," Wolf said, mopping at his face. Aunt Pol
waved her hand almost negligently, and the rain stopped as if a bucket had
emptied itself.
"We have to find Durnik," Barak reminded them.
"He was behind us." Garion pointed back up the now-overflowing stream. His chest
felt constricted with a cold fear at what they might find, but he steeled
himself and led the way back into the trees.
"The smith is a good companion," Mandorallen said. "I should not care to lose
him." There was a strange, subdued quality in the knight's voice, and his face
seemed abnormally pale in the dim light. The hand holding his great broadsword,
however, was rock-steady. Only his eyes betrayed a kind of doubt Garion had
never seen there before.
Water dripped around them as they walked through the sodden woods. "It was about
here," Garion said, looking around. "I don't see any sign of him."
"I'm up here." Durnik's voice came from above them. He was a goodly distance up
a large oak tree and was peering down. "Are they gone?" He carefully began
climbing down the slippery tree trunk. "The rain came just in time," he said,
jumping down the last few feet. "I was starting to have a little trouble keeping
them out of the tree."
Quickly, without a word, Aunt Pol embraced the good man, and then, as if
embarrassed by that sudden gesture, she began to scold him. Durnik endured her
words patiently, and there was a strange expression on his face.
Chapter Twenty-one
GARION'S SLEEP THAT NIGHT WAS TROUBLED. He awoke frequently, shuddering at the
remembered touch of the mud-men. But in time the night, as all nights must, came
to an end, and the morning dawned clear and bright. He drowsed for a while,
rolled in his blankets, until Ce'Nedra came to get him up.
"Garion," she said softly, touching his shoulder, "are you awake?" He opened his
eyes and looked up at her. "Good morning."
"Lady Polgara says that you're supposed to get up," she told him.
Garion yawned, stretched and sat up. He glanced out the tent flap and saw that
the sun was shining.
"She's teaching me how to cook," Ce'Nedra said rather proudly.
"That's nice," Garion told her, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
She looked at him for a long moment, her small face serious and her green eyes
intent. "Garion."
"Yes?"
"You were very brave yesterday."
He shrugged slightly. "I'll probably get a scolding for it today."
"What for?"
"Aunt Pol and my grandfather don't like it when I try to be brave," he
explained. "They think I'm still a child, and they don't want me to get hurt."
"Garion!" Aunt Pol called from the small fire where she was cooking. "I need
more firewood."
Garion sighed and rolled out of his blankets. He pulled on his half boots,
belted on his sword and went off into the woods.
It was still damp under the huge oaks from the downpour Aunt Pol had called down
the day before, and dry wood was hard to find. He wandered about, pulling limbs
out from under fallen trees and from beneath overhanging rocks. The silent trees
watched him, but they seemed somehow less unfriendly this morning.
"What are you doing?" a light voice came from above him. He looked up quickly,
his hand going to his sword.
A girl was standing on a broad limb just over his head. She wore a belted tunic
and sandals. Her hair was a tawny color, her gray eyes were curious, and her
pale skin had that faint greenish hue to it that identified her as a Dryad. In
her left hand she held a bow, and her right held an arrow against the taut
string. The arrow was pointed directly at Garion.
He carefully took his hand away from his sword. "I'm gathering wood," he said.
"What for?"
"My aunt needs it for the fire," he explained.
"Fire?" The girl's face hardened, and she half drew her bow. "A small one," he
said quickly, "for cooking."
"Fire isn't permitted here," the girl said sternly.
"You'll have to explain that to Aunt Pol," Garion told her. "I just do what I'm
told."
The girl whistled, and another girl came from behind a nearby tree. She also
carried a bow. Her hair was almost as red as Ce'Nedra's, and her skin was also
touched with the color of leaves.
"It says it's gathering wood," the first girl reported, "for a fire. Do you
think I should kill it?"
"Xantha says we're supposed to find out who they are," the redhaired one said
thoughtfully. "If it turns out that they don't have any business here, then you
can kill it."
"Oh, very well," the tawny-haired girl agreed, with obvious disappointment. "But
don't forget that I found this one. When the time comes, I get to kill it."
Garion felt the hair beginning to rise on the back of his neck.
The red-haired one whistled, and a half dozen other armed Dryads drifted out of
the trees. They were all quite small, and their hair was various shades of reds
and golds, not unlike the color of autumn leaves.
They gathered about Garion, giggling and chattering as they examined him.
"That one is mine," the tawny-haired Dryad said, climbing down from the tree. "I
found it, and Xera says that I get to kill it."
"It looks healthy," one of the others observed, "and quite tame. Maybe we should
keep it. Is it a male?"
Another one giggled. "Let's check and find out."
"I'm a male," Garion said quickly, blushing in spite of himself.
"It seems a shame to waste it," one remarked. "Maybe we could keep it for a
while and then kill it."
"It's mine," the tawny-haired Dryad stated stubbornly, "and if I want to kill
it. I will." She took hold of Garion's arm possessively.
"Let's go look at the others," the one called Xera suggested. "They're building
fires, and we'll want to stop that."
"Fires?" several of the others gasped, and they all glared at Garion accusingly.
"Only a small one," Garion said quickly.
"Bring it along," Xera ordered and started off through the Wood toward the
tents. Far overhead the trees murmured to each other. Aunt Pol was waiting
calmly when they reached the clearing where the tents were. She looked at the
Dryads clustered around Garion without changing expression. "Welcome, ladies,"
she said.
The Dryads began whispering to each other.
"Ce'Nedra!" the one called Xera exclaimed.
"Cousin Xera," Ce'Nedra replied, and the two ran to embrace each other. The
other Dryads came out a little farther into the clearing, looking nervously at
the fire.
Ce'Nedra spoke quickly with Xera, explaining to her cousin who they were, and
Xera motioned for the others to come closer. "It seems that these are friends,"
she said. "We'll take them to my mother, Queen Xantha."
"Does that mean that I won't get to kill this one?" The tawny-haired Dryad
demanded petulantly, pointing a small finger at Garion.
"I'm afraid not," Xera answered.
The tawny one stamped away, pouting. Garion breathed a sigh of relief.
Then Mister Wolf came out of one of the tents and looked at the cluster of
Dryads with a broad smile.
"It's Belgarath!" one of the Dryads squealed and ran to him happily. She threw
her arms around his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him soundly. "Did you
bring us any sweets?" she demanded.
The old man put on a sober expression and began rummaging through his many
pockets. Bits of sweetmeats began to appear just as quickly disappeared as the
Dryads gathered about him, snatching them as fast as he took them from his
pockets.
"Have you got any new stories for us?" one of the Dryads asked.
"Many stories," Wolf told her, touching one finger to the side of his nose
slyly. "But we ought to wait so your sisters can hear them too, shouldn't we?"
"We want one just for ourselves," the Dryad said.
"And what would you give me for this special story?"
"Kisses," the Dryad offered promptly. "Five kisses from each of us."
"I've got a very good story," Wolf bargained. "It's worth more than five. Let's
say ten."
"Eight," the Tittle Dryad countered.
"All right," Wolf agreed. "Eight sounds about right."
"I see you've been here before, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol remarked dryly.
"I visit from time to time," he admitted with a bland expression.
"Those sweets aren't good for them, you know," she chided.
"A little bit won't hurt them, Pol," he said, "and they like them very much. A
Dryad will do almost anything for sweets."
"You're disgusting," she told him.
The Dryads were all clustered around Mister Wolf, looking almost like a garden
of spring flowers - all, that is, except for the tawny one who'd captured
Garion. She stood a bit apart, sulking and fingering the point of her arrow. She
finally came over to Garion. "You're not thinking about running away, are you?"
she asked hopefully.
"No," Garion denied emphatically.
She sighed with disappointment. "I don't suppose you'd consider it, would you as a special favor to me?"
"I'm sorry," he said.
She sighed again, bitterly this time. "I never get to have any fun," she
complained and went to join the others.
Silk emerged from a tent, moving slowly and carefully; and after the Dryads had
become accustomed to him, Durnik appeared.
"They're just children, aren't they?" Garion commented to Aunt Pol.
"They seem to be," she said, "but they're much older than they look. A Dryad
lives as long as her tree does, and oak trees live for a long time."
"Where are the boy Dryads?" he asked. "All I see are girls."
"There aren't any boy Dryads, dear," she explained, returning to her cooking.
"Then how-? I mean-" He faltered and felt his ears growing hot.
"They catch human males for that," she said. "Travelers and the like."
"Oh." He delicately let the subject drop.
After they had eaten breakfast and carefully quenched their fire with water from
the stream, they saddled their horses and started off through the Wood. Mister
Wolf walked ahead with the tiny Dryads still gathered around him, laughing and
chattering like happy children. The murmuring of the trees about them was no
longer unfriendly, and they moved through a kind of welcoming rustle from a
million leaves.
It was late afternoon by the time they reached a large clearing in the center of
the Wood. Standing alone in the middle of the clearing was an oak so large that
Garion could hardly accept the idea that anything so enormous could be alive.
Here and there in its mossy trunk were openings almost like caverns, and its
lower limbs were as broad as highways and they spread out to shade nearly the
entire clearing. There was about the tree a sense of vast age and a patient
wisdom. Tentatively Garion felt a faint touch on his mind, almost like the soft
brush of a leaf against his face. The touch was unlike anything he had ever felt
before, but it also seemed to welcome him.
The tree was literally alive with Dryads, clustering randomly on the limbs like
blossoms. Their laughter and girlish chatter filled the air like birdsongs.
"I'll tell my mother you've arrived," the one called Xera said and went toward
the tree.
Garion and the others dismounted and stood uncertainly near their horses. From
overhead Dryads peered curiously down at them, whispering among themselves and
giggling often.
For some reason the frank, mirthful stares of the Dryads made Garion feel very
self conscious. He moved closer to Aunt Pol and noticed that the others were
also clustering around her as if unconsciously seeking her protection.
"Where's the princess?" she asked.
"She's just over there, Mistress Pol," Durnik answered, "visiting with that
group of Dryads."
"Keep your eye on her," Aunt Pol said. "And where's my vagrant father?"
"Near the tree," Garion replied. "The Dryads seem very fond of him."
"The old fool," Aunt Pol said darkly.
Then, from a hollow in the tree some distance above the first broad limbs,
another Dryad appeared. Instead of the short tunic the others wore, this one was
garbed in a flowing green gown, and her golden hair was caught in with a circlet
of what appeared to be mistletoe. Gracefully she descended to the ground.
Aunt Pol went forward to meet her, and the others trailed behind at a respectful
distance.
"Dear Polgara," the Dryad said warmly, "it's been so long."
"We all have our duties, Xantha," Aunt Pol explained.
The two embraced fondly.
"Have you brought us these as gifts?" Queen Xantha asked, looking admiringly at
the men standing behind Aunt Pol.
Aunt Pol laughed. "I'm afraid not, Xantha. I'd be happy to give them to you, but
I think I may need them later."
"Ah well," the queen said with a mock sigh. "Welcome all," she greeted them.
"You'll sup with us, of course."
"We'd be delighted," Aunt Pol said. Then she took the queen's arm. "Can we talk
for a moment first, Xantha?" The two moved apart from the others and spoke
quietly together as the Dryads carried bundles and sacks down from the hollows
in the tree and began to lay a feast on the grass beneath the broad limbs.
The meal which was spread out looked peculiar. The common food of the Dryads
seemed to consist entirely of fruits, nuts and mushrooms, all prepared without
any cooking.
Barak sat down and looked sourly at what was offered. "No meat," he grumbled.
"It heats up your blood anyway," Silk told him.
Barak sipped suspiciously at his cup. "Water," he said with distaste.
"You might find it a novelty to go to bed sober for a change," Aunt Pol observed
as she rejoined them.
"I'm sure it's unhealthy," Barak said.
Ce'Nedra seated herself near Queen Xantha. She obviously wanted to talk to her,
but since there was no opportunity for privacy, she finally spoke out in front
of them all. "I have a favor to ask, your Highness."
"You may ask, child," the queen said, smiling.
"It's only a small thing," Ce'Nedra explained. "I'll need sanctuary for a few
years. My father's growing unreasonable in his old age. I'll have to stay away
from him until he comes to his senses."
"In what way is Ran Borune growing unreasonable?" Xantha asked.
"He won't let me go out of the palace, and he insists that I go to Riva on my
sixteenth birthday," Ce'Nedra said in an outraged tone. "Have you ever heard of
such a thing?"
"And why does he want you to go to Riva?"
"Some foolish treaty. No one even remembers the reason for it."
"If it's a treaty, it must be honored, dear," the queen said gently.
"I won't go to Riva," Ce'Nedra announced. "I'll stay here until after my
sixteenth birthday's passed, and that'll be the end of it."
"No, dear," the queen said firmly, "you won't."
"What?" Ce'Nedra was stunned.
"We have a treaty too," Xantha explained. "Our agreement with the House of
Borune is most explicit. Our Wood remains inviolate only for so long as the
female descendants of the Princess Xoria stay with the Borunes. It's your duty
to remain with your father and to obey him."
"But I'm a Dryad," Ce'Nedra wailed. "I belong here."
"You're also human," the queen said, "and you belong with your father."
"I don't want to go to Riva," Ce'Nedra protested.
"It's degrading." Xantha looked at her sternly. "Don't be a foolish child," she
said. "Your duties are clear. You have a duty as a Dryad, as a Borune, and as an
Imperial Princess. Your silly little whims are quite beside the point. If you
have an obligation to go to Riva, then you must go."
Ce'Nedra appeared shaken by the finality of the queen's tone, and she sulked in
silence after that.
Then the queen turned to Mister Wolf. "There are many rumors abroad," she said,
"and some of them have even reached us here. I think something momentous is
happening out there in the world of the humans, and it may even touch our lives
in this Wood. I think I should know what this thing is."
Wolf nodded gravely. "I expect you should," he agreed. "The Orb of Aldur has
been stolen from the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King by Zedar the
Apostate."
Xantha caught her breath. "How?" she demanded.
Wolf spread his hands. "We don't know. Zedar's trying to reach the kingdoms of
the Angaraks with the Orb. Once he's there, he'll try to use its power to awaken
Torak."
"That must never happen," the Queen said. "What's being done?"
"The Alorns and the Sendars are getting ready for war," Wolf replied. "The
Arends have promised aid, and Ran Borune has been advised, though he didn't make
any promises. The Borunes can be difficult at times." He glanced at the pouting
Ce'Nedra.
"Then it means war?" the queen asked sadly.
"I'm afraid so, Xantha," he said. "I'm pursuing Zedar with these others, and I
hope we can catch him and get the Orb back before he can reach Torak with it. If
we're successful, I think the Angaraks will attack the West anyway out of
desperation. Certain ancient prophecies are getting close to their fulfillment.
There are signs everywhere, and even the twisted perceptions of the Grolims can
read them."
The Queen sighed. "I've seen some of the signs myself, Belgarath," she said.
"I'd hoped I was wrong. What does this Zedar look like?"
"A great deal like me," Wolf told her. "We served the same Master for a very
long time, and that puts a certain mark on people."
"Someone like that passed through the upper reaches of our Wood last week and
crossed over into Nyissa," Xantha said. "If we'd known, we might have been able
to detain him."
"We're closer than I thought, then. Was he alone?"
"No," Xantha reported. "He had two of the servants of Torak with him and a small
boy."
Wolf looked startled. "A boy?"
"Yes-about six years old or so."
The old man frowned, and then his eyes opened very wide. "So that's how he did
it," he exclaimed. "I never thought of that."
"We can show you where he crossed the river into Nyissa," the queen offered. "I
should warn you though that it's going to be dangerous for so large a party to
go there. Salmissra has eyes everywhere in those swamps."
"I've already made plans for that," Mister Wolf assured her. He turned to Barak.
"Are you sure that ship's going to be waiting at the mouth of the River of the
Woods?" he asked.
"She'll be there," Barak rumbled. "Her captain's a dependable man."
"Good," Wolf said. "Silk and I'll pick up Zedar's trail then, and the rest of
you can follow the river to the sea. Take the ship down the coast and then up
the River of the Serpent to Sthiss Tor. We'll meet you there."
"Dost thou think it wise to separate our party in so perilous a place as
Nyissa?" Mandorallen asked.
"It's necessary," Wolf said. "The snake people are at home in their jungles, and
they don't like outsiders. Silk and I can move swiftly and with greater stealth
if we're alone."
"Where do you want us to meet you?" Barak asked.
"There's a Drasnian trade enclave near the wharves in Sthiss Tor," Silk said.
"Several of the merchants there are my friends. Just ask for Radek of Boktor. If
we can't meet you there, we'll leave word of our whereabouts with the
merchants."
"What about me?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"I think you'll have to stay with us," Aunt Pol answered.
"There's no reason for me to go to Nyissa," Ce'Nedra said.
"You'll go because I tell you to go," Aunt Pol told the tiny girl. "I'm not your
father, Ce'Nedra. Your pouting doesn't wring my heart, and your fluttering
eyelashes don't really impress me."
"I'll run away," Ce'Nedra threatened.
"That would be very foolish," Aunt Pol said coldly. "I'd just have to bring you
back again, and you'd find that unpleasant. Affairs in the world just now are
much too serious to allow the whims of one spoiled little girl to have very much
importance. You'll stay with me, and you will stand in the Hall of the Rivan
King on your sixteenth birthday even if I have to take you there in chains.
We're all much too busy to pamper you any further."
Ce'Nedra stared at her, and then she suddenly burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-two
THE NEXT MORNING before the sun rose and while filmy mist still hovered beneath
the limbs of the great oaks, Silk and Mister Wolf made preparations to leave for
Nyissa. Garion sat on a log, somberly watching the old man bundle up some food.
"Why so glum?" Wolf asked him.
"I wish we didn't have to separate this way," Garion said.
"It's only for a couple of weeks."
"I know, but I still wish-" Garion shrugged.
"Keep an eye on your Aunt for me while I'm gone," Wolf said, tying up his
bundle.
"All right."
"And keep your amulet on. Nyissa's a dangerous place."
"I'll remember," Garion promised. "You'll be careful, won't you, grandfather?"
The old man looked at him gravely, his white beard glistening in the misty
light. "I'm always careful, Garion," he said.
"It's getting late, Belgarath," Silk called, leading two horses up to where the
two of them were talking.
Wolf nodded. "We'll see you in two weeks in Sthiss Tor," he said to Garion.
Garion embraced the old man quickly and then turned away so that he wouldn't
have to watch the two of them leave. He crossed the clearing to where
Mandorallen stood pensively looking out into the mist.
"Parting is a melancholy business," the knight said moodily. He sighed.
"It's more than that though, isn't it, Mandorallen?" Garion asked.
"Thou art a perceptive lad."
"What's been troubling you? You've been acting strangely for the last two days."
"I have discovered a strange feeling within myself, Garion, and I like it not."
"Oh? What is it?"
"Fear," Mandorallen said shortly.
"Fear? Of what?"
"The clay men. I know not why, but their very existence struck a chill into my
soul."
"They frightened us all, Mandorallen," Garion told him.
"I have never been afraid before," Mandorallen said quietly.
"Never?"
"Not even as a child. The clay men made my very flesh creep, and I wanted most
desperately to run away."
"But you didn't," Garion pointed out. "You stayed and fought."
"That time yes," Mandorallen admitted. "But what of next time? Now that fear has
found its way into my spirit, who can say when it might return? In some
desperate hour when the outcome of our quest hangs in the balance, might not
vile fear lay its cold hand upon my heart and unman me? It is that possibility
which doth gnaw upon my soul. I am sorely ashamed of my weakness and my fault."
"Ashamed? For being human? You're too hard on yourself, Mandorallen."
"Thou art kind thus to excuse me, lad, but my failing is too grievous for such
simple forgiveness. I have striven for perfection and struck, I think, not too
far off the mark; but now that perfection, which was the marvel of the world, is
flawed. It is a bitter thing to accept." He turned, and Garion was startled to
see tears standing in his eyes. "Wilt thou assist me into mine armor?" he asked.
"Of course."
"I feel profoundly the need to be encased in steel. It will perchance strengthen
my cowardly heart."
"You're not a coward," Garion insisted.
Mandorallen sighed sadly. "Only time can reveal that."
When it was time to leave, Queen Xantha spoke briefly to them. "I wish you all
well," she said. "I'd help you in your search if possible, but a Dryad's bound
to her tree by ties which can't be broken. My tree here is very old, and I must
care for him." She looked fondly up at the vast oak rising into the morning
mist. "We're in bondage to each other, but it's a bondage of love."
Once again Garion felt that same faint touch on his mind that he had experienced
the day before when he had first seen the huge tree. There was a sense of
farewell in that touch, and what seemed to be a warning.
Queen Xantha exchanged a startled glance with Aunt Pol and then looked at Garion
rather closely. "Some of my younger daughters will guide you to the river that
marks the southern border of our Wood," she continued. "From there your way to
the sea is clear." Her voice showed no sign of any change, but her eyes seemed
thoughtful.
"Thank you, Xantha," Aunt Pol said warmly, embracing the Dryad queen. "If you
can send word to the Borunes that Ce'Nedra's safe and with me, it might relieve
the Emperor's mind somewhat."
"I will, Polgara," Xantha promised.
They mounted then and followed the half dozen or so Dryads who flitted ahead of
them like butterflies, guiding them southward into the forest. For some reason
Garion felt profoundly depressed, and he paid little attention to his
surroundings as he rode beside Durnik along the winding forest trail.
About midmorning it began to grow darker under the trees, and they rode in
silence through the now-somber wood. The warning Garion had seemed to hear in
Queen Xantha's clearing echoed somehow in the creak of limbs and the rustling of
leaves.
"The weather must be changing," Durnik said, looking up. "I wish I could see the
sky."
Garion nodded and tried to shake off the sense of impending danger. Mandorallen
in his armor and Barak in his mail shirt rode at the head of the party, and
Hettar in his horsehide jacket with steel plates riveted to it rode at the rear.
The ominous sense of foreboding seemed to have reached them all, and they rode
warily with their hands near their weapons and their eyes searching for trouble.
Then quite suddenly Tolnedran legionnaires were all around them, rising from the
bushes or stepping out from behind trees. They made no attempt to attack, but
stood in their brightly polished breastplates with their short spears at the
ready.
Barak swore, and Mandorallen reined in his charger sharply. "Stand aside!" he
ordered the soldiers, lowering his lance.
"Easy," Barak cautioned.
The Dryads, after one startled look at the soldiers, melted into the gloomy
woods.
"What thinkest thou, Lord Barak?" Mandorallen asked blithely. "They cannot be
over a hundred. Shall we attack them?"
"One of these days you and I are going to have to have a long talk about a few
things," Barak said. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Hettar was
edging closer, then he sighed. "Well, I suppose we might as well get on with
it." He tightened the straps on his shield and loosened his sword in its sheath.
"What do you think, Mandorallen? Should we give them a chance to run away?"
"A charitable suggestion, Lord Barak," Mandorallen agreed.
Then, some distance up the trail, a body of horsemen rode out from under the
shadowy trees. Their leader was a large man wearing a blue cloak trimmed with
silver. His breastplate and helmet were inlaid with gold, and he rode a prancing
chestnut stallion whose hooves churned the damp leaves lying on the ground.
"Splendid," he said as he rode up. "Absolutely splendid."
Aunt Pol fixed the newcomer with a cold eye. "Don't the legions have anything
better to do than to waylay travelers?" she demanded.
"This is my legion, Madam," the man in the blue cloak said arrogantly, "and it
does what I tell it to. I see that you have the Princess Ce'Nedra with you."
"Where I go and with whom is my concern, your Grace," Ce'Nedra said loftily.
"It's of no concern to the Grand Duke Kador of the House y of Vordue."
"Your father is most concerned, Princess," Kador said. "All Tolnedra's searching
for you. Who are these people?"
Garion tried with a dark scowl and a shake of his head to warn her, but it was
too late.
"The two knights who lead our party are Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, and
Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim," she announced. "The Algar warrior who guards our
rear is Hettar, son of Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The lady-"
"I can speak for myself, dear," Aunt Pol said smoothly. "I'm curious to know
what brings the Grand Duke of Vordue so far into southern Tolnedra."
"I have interests here, Madam," Kador said.
"Evidently," Aunt Pol replied.
"All the legions of the Empire are searching for the princess, but it's I who
have found her."
"I'm amazed to find a Vorduvian so willing to aid in the search for a Borune
princess," Aunt Pol observed. "Especially considering the centunes of enmity
between your two houses."
"Shall we cease this idle banter?" Kador suggested icily. "My motives are my own
affair."
"And unsavory, no doubt," she added.
"I think you forget yourself, Madam," Kador said. "I am, after all, who I am and more to the point, who I will become."
"And who will you become, your Grace?" she inquired.
"I will be Ran Vordue, Emperor of Tolnedra," Kador announced.
"Oh? And just what's the future Emperor of Tolnedra doing in the Wood of the
Dryads?"
"I'm doing what's necessary to protect my interests," Kador said stifly. "For
the moment, it's essential that the Princess Ce'Nedra be in my custody."
"My father may have something to say about that, Duke Kador," Ce'Nedra said,
"and about this ambition of yours."
"What Ran Borune says is of no concern to me, your Highness," Kador told her.
"Tolnedra needs me, and no Borune trick is going to deny me the Imperial Crown.
It's obvious that the old man plans to marry you to a Honeth or a Horbite to
raise some spurious claim to the throne. That could complicate matters, but I
intend to keep things simple."
"By marrying me yourself?" Ce'Nedra asked scornfully. "You'll never live that
long."
"No," Kador said. "I wouldn't be interested in a Dryad wife. Unlike the Borunes,
the House of Vordue believes in keeping its line pure and uncontaminated."
"So you're going to hold me prisoner?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"That'd be impossible, I'm afraid," Duke Kador told her. "The Emperor has ears
everywhere. It's really a shame you ran away just when you did, your Highness.
I'd gone to a great expense to get one of my agents into the Imperial kitchen
and to obtain a quantity of a rare Nyissan poison. I'd even taken the trouble to
compose a letter of sympathy to your father."
"How considerate of you," Ce'Nedra said, her face turning pale.
"Unfortunately, I'll have to be more direct now," Kador went on. "A sharp knife
and a few feet of dirt should end your unfortunate involvement in Tolnedran
politics. I'm very sorry, Princess. There's nothing personal in it, you
understand, but I have to protect my interests."
"Thy plan, Duke Kador, hath one small flaw," Mandorallen said, carefully leaning
his lance against a tree.
"I fail to see it, Baron," Kador said smugly.
"Throe error lay in rashly coming within reach of my sword," Mandorallen told
him. "Thy head is forfeit now, and a man with no head has little need of a
crown."
Garion knew that a part of Mandorallen's brashness arose from his desperate need
to prove to himself that he was no longer afraid.
Kador looked at the knight apprehensively. "You wouldn't do that," he said
without much certainty. "You're too badly outnumbered."
"Thou art imprudent to think so," Mandorallen said. "I am the hardiest knight on
life and fully armed. Thy soldiers will be as blades of grass before me. Thou
art doomed, Kador." And with that he drew his great sword.
"It was bound to happen," Barak said wryly to Hettar and drew his own sword.
"I don't think we'll do that," a new voice announced harshly. A familiar
black-robed man rode out from behind a nearby tree on a sablecolored horse. He
muttered a few quick words and gestured sharply with his right hand. Garion felt
a dark rush and a strange roaring in his mind. Mandorallen's sword spun from his
grip.
"My thanks, Asharak," Kador said in a relieved tone. "I hadn't anticipated
that."
Mandorallen pulled off his mailed gauntlet and nursed his hand as if he had been
struck a heavy blow. Hettar's eyes narrowed, and then went strangely blank. The
Murgo's black mount glanced curiously at him once and then looked away almost
contemptuously.
"Well, Sha-dar," Asharak gloated with an ugly smirk on his scarred face, "would
you like to try that again?"
Hettar's face had a sick look of revulsion on it. "It's not a horse," he said.
"It looks like a horse, but it's something else."
"Yes," Asharak agreed. "Quite different, really. You can sink yourself into its
mind if you want, but I don't think you'll like what you find there." He swung
down from his saddle and walked toward them, his eyes burning. He stopped in
front of Aunt Pol and made an ironic bow. "And so we meet again, Polgara."
"You've been busy, Chamdar," she replied.
Kador, in the act of dismounting, seemed startled. "You know this woman,
Asharak?"
"His name is Chamdar, Duke Kador," Aunt Pol said, "and he's a Grolim priest. You
thought he was only buying your honor, but you'll soon find that he's bought
much more than that." She straightened in her saddle, the white lock at her brow
suddenly incandescently bright. "You've been an interesting opponent, Chamdar.
I'll almost miss you."
"Don't do it, Polgara," the Grolim said quickly. "I've got my hand around the
boy's heart. The instant you start to gather your will, he'll die. I know who he
is and how much you value him."
Her eyes narrowed. "An easy thing to say, Chamdar."
"Would you like to test it?" he mocked.
"Get down off your horses," Kador ordered sharply, and the legionnaires all took
a threatening step forward.
"Do as he says," Aunt Pol ordered quietly.
"It's been a long chase, Polgara," Chamdar said. "Where's Belgarath?"
"Not far," she told him. "Perhaps if you start running now, you can get away
before he comes back."
"No, Polgara." He laughed. "I'd know if he were that close." He turned and
looked intently at Garion. "You've grown, boy. We haven't had a chance to talk
for quite some time, have we?"
Garion stared back at the scarred face of his enemy, alert, but strangely not
afraid. The contest between them for which he had been waiting all his life was
about to begin, and something deep within his mind told him that he was ready.
Chamdar looked into his eyes, probing. "He doesn't know, does he?" he asked Aunt
Pol. And then he laughed. "How like a woman you are, Polgara. You've kept the
secret from him simply for the sake of the secret itself. I should have taken
him away from you years ago."
"Leave him alone, Chamdar," she ordered.
He ignored that. "What's his real name, Polgara? Have you told him yet.
"That doesn't concern you," she said flatly.
"But it does, Polgara. I've watched over him almost as carefully as you have."
He laughed again. "You've been his mother, but I've been his father. Between us
we've raised a fine son - but I still want to know his real name."
She straightened. "I think this has gone far enough, Chamdar," she said coldly.
"What are your terms?"
"No terms, Polgara," the Grolim answered. "You and the boy and I are going to
the place where Lord Torak awaits the moment of his awakening. My hand will be
about the boy's heart the entire time, so you'll be suitably docile. Zedar and
Ctuchik are going to destroy each other fighting over the Orb - unless Belgarath
finds them first and destroys them himself - but the Orb doesn't really interest
me. It's been you and the boy I've been after from the very beginning."
"You weren't really trying to stop us, then?" she asked.
Chamdar laughed. "Stop you? I've been trying to help you. Ctuchik and Zedar both
have underlings here in the West. I've delayed and deceived them at every turn
just so you could get through. I knew that sooner or later Belgarath would find
it necessary to pursue the Orb alone, and when that happened, I could take you
and the boy."
"For what purpose?"
"You still don't see?" he asked. "The first two things Lord Torak sees when he
awakens will be his bride and his mortal enemy, kneeling in chains before him.
I'll be exalted above all for so royal a gift."
"Let the others go then," she said.
"The others don't concern me," Chamdar said. "I'll leave them with the noble
Kador, I don't imagine he'll find it convenient to keep them alive, but that's
up to him. I've got what I want."
"You swine!" Aunt Pol raged helplessly. "You filthy swine!"
With a bland smile Chamdar slapped her sharply across the face. "You really must
learn to control your tongue, Polgara," he said. Garion's brain seemed to
explode. Dimly he saw Durnik and the others being restrained by the
legionnaries, but no soldier seemed to consider him a danger. He started toward
his enemy without thinking, reaching for his dagger.
"Not that way!" It was that dry voice in his mind that had always been there,
but the voice was no longer passive, disinterested.
"I'll kill him!" Garion said silently in the vaults of his brain.
"Not that way!" the voice warned again. "They won't let you - not with your
knife. "
"How, then?"
"Remember what Belgarath said - the Will and the Word."
"I don't know how I can't do that. "
"You are who you are. I'll show you. Look!" Unbidden and so clearly that it was
almost as if he were watching it happen, the image of the God Torak writhing in
the fire of Aldur's Orb rose before his eyes. He saw Torak's face melting and
his fingers aflame. Then the face shifted and altered until it was the face of
the dark watcher whose mind had been linked with his for as long as he could
remember. He felt a terrible force building in him as the image of Chamdar
wrapped in seething flame stood before him.
"Nowl " the voice commanded him. "Do it!"
It required a blow. His rage would be satisfied with nothing less. He leaped at
the smirking Grolim so quickly that none of the legionnaires could stop him. He
swung his right arm, and at the instant his palm struck Chamdar's scarred left
cheek, he felt all the force that had built in him surge out from the silvery
mark on his palm. "Burn!" he commanded, willing it to happen.
Taken off guard, Chamdar jerked back. A momentary anger began to appear on his
face, and then his eyes widened with an awful realization. For an instant he
stared at Garion in absolute horror, and then his face contorted with agony.
"No!" he cried out hoarsely, and then his cheek began to smoke and seethe where
the mark on Garion's hand had touched it. Wisps of smoke drifted from his black
robe as if it had suddenly been laid on a red-hot stove. Then he shrieked and
clutched at his face. His fingers burst into flame. He shrieked again and fell
writhing to the damp earth.
"Stand still!" It was Aunt Pol's voice this time, sounding sharply inside
Garion's head.
Chamdar's entire face was engulfed in flames now, and his shrieks echoed in the
dim wood. The legionnaires recoiled from the burning man, and Garion suddenly
felt sick. He started to turn away.
"Don't weaken!" Aunt Pol's voice told him. "Keep your will on him!" Garion stood
over the blazing Grolim. The wet leaves on the ground smoked and smoldered where
Chamdar thrashed and struggled with the fire that was consuming him. Flames were
spurting from his chest, and his shrieks grew weaker. With an enormous effort,
he struggled to his feet and held out his flaming hands imploringly to Garion.
His face was gone, and greasy black smoke rolled off his body, drifting low to
the ground. "Master," he croaked, "have mercy!"
Garion's heart wrenched with pity. All the years of that secret closeness
between them pulled at him.
"No!" Aunt Pol's stern voice commanded. "He'll kill you if you release him!"
"I can't do it, " Garion said. "I'm going to stop it. " As once before, he began
to gather his will, feeling it build in him like some vast tide of pity and
compassion. He half reached toward Chamdar, focusing his thought on healing.
"Garion!" Aunt Pol's voice rang. "It was Chamdar who killed your parents!"
The thought forming in his mind froze.
"Chamdar killed Geran and Ildera. He burned them alive just as he's burning now.
Avenge them, Garion! Keep the fire on him!"
All the rage and fury he had carried within him since Wolf had told him of the
deaths of his parents flamed in his brain. The fire, which a moment before he
had almost extinguished, was suddenly not enough. The hand he had begun to reach
out in compassion stiffened. In terrible anger he raised it, palm out. A strange
sensation tingled in that palm, and then his own hand burst into flames. There
was no pain, not even a feeling of heat, as a bright blue fire burst from the
mark on his hand and wreathed up through his fingers. The blue fire became
brighter - so bright that he could not even look at it.
Even in the extremity of his mortal agony, Chamdar the Grolim recoiled from that
blazing hand. With a hoarse, despairing cry he tried to cover his blackened
face, staggered back a few steps, and then, like a burning house, he collapsed
in upon himself and sank back to earth.
"It is done!" Aunt Pol's voice came again. "They are avenged!" And then her
voice rang in the vaults of his mind with a soaring exultation. "Belgarion!" she
sang. "My Belgarion!"
Ashen-faced Kador, trembling in every limb, backed in horror from the
still-burning heap that had been Chamdar the Grolim. "Sorcery!" he gasped.
"Indeed," Aunt Pol said coolly. "I don't think you're ready for this kind of
game yet, Kador."
The frightened legionnaires were also backing away, their eyes bulging at what
they had just seen.
"I think the Emperor's going to take this whole affair rather seriously," Aunt
Pol told them. "When he hears that you were going to kill his daughter, he'll
probably take it personally."
"It wasn't us," one of the soldiers said quickly. "It was Kador. We were just
following orders."
"He might accept that as an excuse," she said doubtfully. "If it were me,
though, I'd take him some kind of gift to prove my loyalty - something
appropriate to the circumstances." She looked significantly at Kador.
Several of the legionnaires took her meaning, drew their swords and moved into
position around the Grand Duke.
"What are you doing?" Kador demanded of them.
"I think you've lost more than a throne today, Kador," Aunt Pol said.
"You can't do this," Kador told the legionnaires.
One of the soldiers put the point of his sword against the Grand Duke's throat.
"We're loyal to the Emperor, my Lord," he said grimly. "We're placing you under
arrest for high treason, and if you give us any trouble, we'll settle for just
delivering your head to Tol Honeth - if you take my meaning."
One of the legion officers knelt respectfully before Ce'Nedra. "Your Imperial
Highness," he said to her, "how may we serve you?"
The princess, still pale and trembling, drew herself up. "Deliver this traitor
to my father," she said in a ringing voice, "and tell him what happened here.
Inform him that you have arrested the Grand Duke Kador at my command."
"At once, your Highness," the officer said, springing to his feet. "Chain the
prisoner!" he ordered sharply, then turned back to Ce'Nedra. "May we provide you
an escort to your destination, your Highness?"
"That won't be necessary, captain," she told him. "Just remove this traitor from
my sight."
"As your Highness wishes," the captain said with a deep bow. He gestured
sharply, and the soldiers led Kador away.
Garion was staring at the mark on his palm. There was no sign of the fire that
had burned there.
Durnik, released now from the grip of the soldiers, looked at Garion, his eyes
wide. "I thought I knew you," he whispered. "Who are you, Garion, and how did
you do this?"
"Dear Durnik," Aunt Pol said fondly, touching his arm. "Still willing to believe
only what you can see. Garion's the same boy he's always been."
"You mean it was you?" Durnik looked at Chamdar's body and pulled his eyes
quickly away.
"Of course," she said. "You know Garion. He's the most ordinary boy in the
world."
But Garion knew differently. The Will had been his, and the Word had come from
him.
"Keep still!" her voice warned inside his head. "No one must know."
"Why did you call me Belgarion?" he demanded silently.
"Because it's your name, " her voice replied. "Now try to act natural and don't
bother me with guestions. We'll talk about it later. " And then her voice was
gone.
The others stood around awkwardly until the legionnaires left with Kador. Then,
when the soldiers were out of sight and the need for imperial self possession
was gone, Ce'Nedra began to cry. Aunt Pol took the tiny girl in her arms and
began to comfort her.
"I guess we'd better bury this," Barak said, nudging what was left of Chamdar
with his foot. "The Dryads might be offended if we went off and left it still
smoking."
"I'll fetch my spade," Durnik said.
Garion turned away and brushed past Mandorallen and Hettar. His hands were
trembling violently, and he was so exhausted that his legs barely held him.
She had called him Belgarion, and the name had rung in his mind as if he had
always known that it was his - as if for all his brief years he had been
incomplete until in that instant the name itself had completed him. But
Belgarion was a being who with Will and Word and the touch of his hand could
turn flesh into living fire.
"You did it!" he accused the dry awareness in one corner of his mind. "No, " the
voice replied. "I only showed you how. The Will and the Word and the touch were
all yours. "
Garion knew that it was true. With horror he remembered his enemy's final
supplication and the flaming, incandescent hand with which he had spurned that
agonized appeal for mercy. The revenge he had wanted so desperately for the past
several months was dreadfully complete, but the taste of it was bitter, bitter.
Then his knees buckled, and he sank to the earth and wept like a broken-hearted
child.
Part Three
NYISSA
Chapter Twenty-three
THE EARTH WAS STILL THE SAME. The trees had not changed, nor had the sky. It was
still spring, for the seasons had not altered their stately march. But for
Garion nothing would ever again be the way that it had been.
They rode down through the Wood of the Dryads to the banks of the River of the
Woods which marked the southern boundary of Tolnedra, and from time to time as
they rode he caught strange glances from his friends. The looks were
speculative, thoughtful, and Durnik - good, solid Durnik - behaved as if he were
almost afraid. Only Aunt Pol seemed unchanged, unconcerned. "Don't worry about
it, Belgarion, " her voice murmured in his mind.
"Don't call me that," he replied with an irritated thought.
"It's your name, " the silent voice said. "You might as well get used to it.
"Leave me alone. "
And then the sense of her presence in his mind was gone.
It took them several days to reach the sea. The weather remained intermittently
cloudy, though it did not rain. A stiff onshore breeze was blowing when they
rode out onto the wide beach at the mouth of the river. The surf boomed against
the sand, and whitecaps flecked the tops of the waves.
Out beyond the surf, a lean, black Cherek war-boat swung at anchor, the air
above her alive with screeching gulls. Barak pulled his horse in and shaded his
eyes. "She looks familiar," he rumbled, peering intently at the narrow ship.
Hettar shrugged. "They all look the same to me."
"There's all the difference in the world," Barak said, sounding a bit injured.
"How would you feel if I said that all horses looked the same?"
"I'd think you were going blind."
Barak grinned at him. "It's exactly the same thing," he said.
"How do we let them know we're here?" Durnik asked.
"They know already," Barak said, "unless they're drunk. Sailors always watch an
unfriendly shore very carefully."
"Unfriendly?" Durnik asked.
"Every shore is unfriendly when a Cherek war-boat comes in sight," Barak
answered. "It's some kind of superstition, I think."
The ship came about and her anchor was raised. Her oars came out like long,
spidery legs, and she seemed to walk through the froth-topped combers toward the
mouth of the river. Barak led the way toward the riverbank, then rode along the
broad flow until he found a spot deep enough so that the ship could be moored
next to the shore.
The fur-clad sailors who threw Barak a mooring line looked familiar, and the
first one who leaped across to the riverbank was Greldik, Barak's old friend.
"You're a long ways south," Barak said as if they had only just parted.
Greldik shrugged. "I heard you needed a ship. I wasn't doing anything, so I
thought I'd come down and see what you were up to."
"Did you talk to my cousin?"
"Grinneg? No. We made a run down from Kotu to the harbor at Tol Horb for some
Drasnian merchants. I ran into Elteg - you remember him - black beard, only one
eye?"
Barak nodded.
"He told me that Grinneg was paying him to meet you here. I remembered that you
and Elteg didn't get along very well, so I offered to come down instead."
"And he agreed?"
"No," Greldik replied, pulling at his beard. "As a matter of fact, he told me to
mind my own business."
"I'm not surprised," Barak said. "Elteg always was greedy, and Grinneg probably
offered him a lot of money."
"More than likely." Greldik grinned. "Elteg didn't say how much, though."
"How did you persuade him to change his mind?"
"He had some trouble with his ship," Greldik said with a straight face.
"What kind of trouble?"
"It seems that one night after he and his crew were all drunk, some scoundrel
slipped aboard and chopped down his mast."
"What's the world coming to?" Barak asked, shaking his head.
"My thought exactly," Greldik agreed.
"How did he take it?"
"Not very well, I'm afraid," Greldik said sadly. "When we rowed out of the
harbor, he sounded as if he was inventing profanities on the spot. You could
hear him for quite some distance."
"He should learn to control his temper. That's the kind of behavior that gives
Chereks a bad name in the ports of the world."
Greldik nodded soberly and turned to Aunt Pol. "My Lady," he said with a polite
bow, "my ship is at your disposal."
"Captain," she asked, acknowledging his bow. "How long will it take you to get
us to Sthiss Tor?"
"Depends on the weather," he answered, squinting at the sky. "Probably ten days
at the most. We picked up fodder for your horses on the way here, but we'll have
to stop for water from time to time."
"We'd better get started then," she said.
It took a bit of persuading to get the horses aboard the ship, but Hettar
managed it without too much difficulty. Then they pushed away from the bank,
crossed the bar at the mouth of the river and reached the open sea. The crew
raised the sails, and they quartered the wind down along the gray-green
coastline of Nyissa.
Garion went forward to his customary place in the bow of the ship and sat there,
staring bleakly out at the tossing sea. The image of the burning man back in the
forest filled his mind.
There was a firm step behind him and a faint, familiar fragrance.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Aunt Pol asked.
"What's there to talk about?"
"Many things," she told him.
"You knew I could do that kind of thing, didn't you?"
"I suspected it," she said, sitting down beside him. "There were several hints.
One can never be sure, though, until it's used for the first time. I've known
any number of people who had the capability and just never used it."
"I wish I never had," Garion said.
"I don't see that you really had much choice. Chamdar was your enemy."
"But did it have to be that way?" he demanded. "Did it have to be fire?"
"The choice was yours," she answered. "If fire bothers you so much, don't do it
that way next time."
"There isn't going to be a next time," he stated flatly. "Not ever."
"Belgarion, " her voice snapped within his mind, "stop this foolishness at once.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. "
"Quit that," he said aloud. "Stay out of my mind - and don't call me Belgarion."
"You are Belgarion," she insisted. "Like it or not, you will use the power
again. Once it's been released, you can never cage it up. You'll get angry or
frightened or excited, and you'll use it without even thinking. You can no more
choose not to use it than you can choose not to use one of your hands. The
important thing now is to teach you how to control it. We can't have you
blundering through the world uprooting trees and flattening hills with random
thoughts. You must learn to control it and yourself. I didn't raise you to let
you become a monster."
"It's too late," he said. "I'm already a monster. Didn't you see what I did back
there?"
"All this self pity is very tedious, Belgarion, " her voice told him. "I don't
think we're getting anywhere. " She stood up. "Do try to grow up a little,
dear," she said aloud. "It's very hard to instruct someone who's so self
absorbed that he won't listen."
"I'll never do it again," he told her defiantly.
"Oh yes, you will, Belgarion. You'll learn and you'll practice and you'll
develop the discipline this requires. If you don't want to do it willingly, then
we'll have to do it the other way. Think about it, dear, and make up your mind but don't take too long. It's too important to be put off. "She reached out and
gently touched his cheek; then she turned and walked away.
"She's right, you know, " the voice in his mind told him.
"You stay out of this, " Garion said.
In the days that followed, he avoided Aunt Pol as much as possible, but he could
not avoid her eyes. Wherever he went on the narrow ship, he knew that she was
watching him, her eyes calm, speculative.
Then, at breakfast on the third day out, she looked at his face rather closely
as if noticing something for the first time. "Garion," she said, "you're
starting to look shaggy. Why don't you shave?"
Garion blushed furiously and put his fingers to his chin. There were definitely
whiskers there - downy, soft, more like fuzz than bristles, but whiskers all the
same.
"Thou art truly approaching manhood, young Garion," Mandorallen assured him
rather approvingly.
"The decision doesn't have to be made immediately, Polgara," Barak said,
stroking his own luxuriant red beard. "Let the whiskers grow for a while. If
they don't turn out well, he can always shave them off later."
"I think your neutrality in the matter is suspect, Barak," Hettar remarked.
"Don't most Chereks wear beards?"
"No razor's ever touched my face," Barak admitted. "But I just don't think it's
the sort of thing to rush into. It's very hard to stick whiskers back on if you
decide later that you wanted to keep them after all."
"I think they're kind of funny," Ce'Nedra said. Before Garion could stop her,
she reached out two tiny fingers and tugged the soft down on his chin. He winced
and blushed again.
"They come off," Aunt Pol ordered firmly.
Wordlessly, Durnik went below decks. When he came back, he carried a basin, a
chunk of brown-colored soap, a towel, and a fragment of mirror. "It isn't really
hard, Garion," he said, putting the things on the table in front of the young
man. Then he took a neatly folded razor out of a case at his belt. "You just
have to be careful not to cut yourself, that's all. The whole secret is not to
rush."
"Pay close attention when you're near your nose," Hettar advised. "A man looks
very strange without a nose."
The shaving proceeded with a great deal of advice, and on the whole it did not
turn out too badly. Most of the bleeding stopped after a few minutes, and, aside
from the fact that his face felt as if it had been peeled, Garion was quite
satisfied with the results.
"Much better," Aunt Pol said.
"He'll catch cold in his face now," Barak predicted.
"Will you stop that?" she told him.
The coast of Nyissa slid by on their left, a blank wall of tangled vegetation,
festooned with creepers and long tatters of moss. Occasional eddies in the
breeze brought the foul reek of the swamps out to the ship. Garion and Ce'Nedra
stood together in the prow of the ship, looking toward the jungle.
"What are those?" Garion asked, pointing at some large things with legs
slithering around on a mud bank along a stream that emptied into the sea.
"Crocodiles," Ce'Nedra answered.
"What's a crocodile?"
"A big lizard," she said.
"Are they dangerous?"
"Very dangerous. They eat people. Haven't you ever read about them?"
"I can't read," Garion admitted without thinking.
"What?"
"I can't read," Garion repeated. "Nobody ever taught me how."
"That's ridiculous!"
"It's not my fault," he said defensively.
She looked at him thoughtfully. She had seemed almost half afraid of him since
the meeting with Chamdar, and her insecurity had probably been increased by the
fact that, on the whole, she had not treated him very well. Her first assumption
that he was only a servant boy had gotten their whole relationship off on the
wrong foot, but she was far too proud to admit that initial mistake. Garion
could almost hear the little wheels clicking around in her head. "Would you like
to have me teach you how?" she offered. It was probably the closest thing he'd
ever get to an apology from her.
"Would it take very long?"
"That depends on how clever you are."
"When do you think we could start?"
She frowned. "I've got a couple of books, but we'll need something to write on."
"I don't know that I need to learn how to write," he said. "Reading 'ought to be
enough for right now."
She laughed. "They're the same thing, you goose."
"I didn't know that," Garion said, flushing slightly. "I thought " He floundered
with the whole idea. "I guess I never really thought about it," he concluded
lamely. "What sort of thing do we need to write on?"
"Parchment's the best," she said, "and a charcoal stick to write with - so we
can rub it off and write on the parchment again."
"I'll go talk to Durnik," he decided. "He'll be able to think of something."
Durnik suggested sailcloth and a charred stick. Within an hour Garion and
Ce'Nedra were sitting in a sheltered spot in the bow of the ship their heads
close together over a square of canvas nailed to a plank. Garion glanced up once
and saw Aunt Pol not far away. She was watching the two of them with an
indecipherable expression. Then he lowered his eyes again to the strangely
compelling symbols on the canvas.
His instruction went on for the next several days. Since his fingers were
naturally nimble, he quickly picked up the trick of forming the letter.
"No, no," Ce'Nedra said one afternoon, "you've spelled it wrong, used the wrong
letters. Your name's Garion, not Belgarion."
He felt a sudden chill and looked down at the canvas square. The name was
spelled out quite clearly - "Belgarion."
He looked up quickly. Aunt Pol was standing where she usually stood, her eyes on
him as always.
"Stay out of my mind!" He snapped the thought at her.
"Study hard, dear, " her voice urged him silently. "Learning of any kind is
useful, and you have a great deal to learn. The sooner you get the habit, the
better. " Then she smiled, turned and walked away.
The next day, Greldik's ship reached the mouths of the River of the Serpent in
central Nyissa, and his men struck the sail and set their oars into the locks
along the sides of the ship in preparation for the long pull upriver to Sthiss
Tor.
Chapter Twenty-four
THERE WAS NO AIR. It seemed as if the world had suddenly been turned into a
vast, reeking pool of stagnant water. The River of the Serpent had a hundred
mouths, each creeping sluggishly through the jellied muck of the delta as if
reluctant to join the boisterous waves of the sea. The reeds which grew in that
vast swamp reached a height of twenty feet and were as thick as woven fabric.
There was a tantalizing sound of a breeze brushing the tops of the reeds, but
down among them, all thought or memory of breeze was lost. There was no air. The
delta steamed and stank beneath a sun that did not burn so much as boil. Each
breath seemed to be half water. Insects rose in clouds from the reeds and
settled in mindless gluttony on every inch of exposed skin, biting, feeding on
blood.
They were a day and a half among the reeds before they reached the first trees,
low, scarcely more than bushes. The main river channel began to take shape as
they moved slowly on into the Nyissan heartland. The sailors sweated and swore
at their oars, and the ship moved slowly against the current, almost as if she
struggled against a tide of thick oil that clung to her like some loathsome
glue.
The trees grew taller, then immense. Great, gnarled roots twisted up out of the
ooze along the banks like grotesquely misshapen legs, and trunks vast as castles
reached up into the steaming sky. Ropey vines undulated down from the limbs
overhead, moving, seeming to writhe with a kind of vegetable will of their own
in the breathless air. Shaggy tatters of grayish moss descended in
hundred-foot-long streamers from the trees, and the river wound spitefully in
great coils that made their journey ten times as long as it needed to be.
"Unpleasant sort of place," Hettar grumbled, dispiritedly looking out over the
bow at the weedy surface of the river ahead. He had removed his horsehide jacket
and linen undertunic, and his lean torso gleamed with sweat. Like most of them,
he was covered with the angry welts of insect bites.
"My very thought," Mandorallen agreed.
One of the sailors shouted and jumped up, kicking at his oar-handle. Something
long, slimy, and boneless had crawled unseen up his oar, seeking his flesh with
an eyeless voracity.
"Leech," Durnik said with a shudder as the hideous thing dropped with a wet plop
back into the stinking river. "I've never seen one so big. It must be a foot
long or more."
"Probably not a good place for swimming," Hettar observed.
"I wasn't considering it," Durnik said.
"Good." Aunt Pol, wearing a light linen dress, came out of the cabin beneath the
high stern where Greldik and Barak were taking turns at the tiller. She had been
caring for Ce'Nedra, who had drooped and wilted like a flower in the brutal
climate of the river.
"Can't you do something?" Garion demanded of her silently.
"About what?"
"All of this."He looked around helplessly.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Drive of the bugs, if nothing else."
"Why don't you do it yourself, Belgarion?"
He set his jaw. "No!" It was almost a silent shout.
"It isn't really very hard."
"No."
She shrugged and turned away, leaving him seething with frustration. It took
them three more days to reach Sthiss Tor. The city was embraced in a wide coil
of the river and was built of black stone. The houses and buildings were low and
for the most part were windowless. In the center of the city a vast pile of a
building rose with strangely shaped spires and domes and terraces, oddly
alien-looking. Wharves and jetties poked out into the turbid river, and Greldik
guided his ship toward one which was much larger than the rest. "We have to stop
at customs," he explained.
"Inevitably," Durnik said.
The exchange at customs was brief. Captain Greldik announced that he was
delivering the goods of Radek of Boktor to the Drasnian trade enclave. Then he
handed a jingling purse to the shaven-headed customs official, and the ship was
allowed to proceed without inspection.
"You owe me for that, Barak," Greldik said. "The trip here was out of
friendship, but the money's something else again."
"Write it down someplace," Barak told him. "I'll take care of it when I get back
to Val Alorn."
"If you ever get back to Val Alorn," Greldik said sourly.
"I'm sure you'll remember me in your prayers, then," Barak said. "I know you
pray for me all the time anyway, but now you've got a bit more incentive."
"Is every official in the whole world corrupt?" Durnik demanded irritably.
"Doesn't anyone do his job the way it's supposed to be done without taking
bribes?"
"The world would come to an end if one of them did," Hettar replied. "You and I
are too simple and honest for these affairs, Durnik. We're better off leaving
this kind of thing to others."
"It's disgusting, that's all."
"That may be true," Hettar agreed, "but I'm just as happy that the customs man
didn't look below decks. We might have had some trouble explaining the horses."
The sailors had backed the ship into the river again and rowed toward a series
of substantial wharves. They pulled up beside the outer wharf, shipped their
oars and looped the hawsers around the tar-blackened pilings of a mooring spot.
"You can't moor here," a sweaty guard told them from the wharf. "This is for
Drasnian ships."
"I'll moor anyplace it suits me," Greldik said shortly.
"I'll call out the soldiers," the guard threatened. He took hold of one of their
hawsers and pulled out a long knife.
"If you cut that rope, friend, I'll come down there and tear off your ears,"
Greldik warned.
"Go ahead and tell him," Barak suggested. "It's too hot for fighting."
"My ship's carrying Drasnian goods," Greldik told the guard on the wharf,
"belonging to a man named Radek-from Boktor, I think."
"Oh," the guard said, putting away his knife, "why didn't you say so in the
first place?"
"Because I didn't like your attitude," Greldik replied bluntly. "Where do I find
the man in charge?"
"Droblek? His house is just up that street past the shops. It's the one with the
Drasnian emblem on the door."
"I've got to talk with him," Greldik said. "Do I need a pass to go off the
wharf? I've heard some strange things about Sthiss Tor."
"You can move around inside the enclave," the guard informed him. "You only need
a pass if you want to go into the city."
Greldik grunted and went below. A moment later he came back with several packets
of folded parchment. "Do you want to talk to this official?" he asked Aunt Pol.
"Or do you want me to take care of it?"
"We'd better come along," she decided. "The girl's asleep. Tell your men not to
disturb her."
Greldik nodded and spoke briefly to his first mate. The sailors ran a plank
across to the wharf, and Greldik led the way ashore. Thick clouds were rolling
in overhead, darkening the sun.
The street which ran down to the wharf was lined on both sides with the shops of
Drasnian merchants, and Nyissans moved torpidly from shop to shop, stopping now
and then to haggle with the sweating shop-keepers. The Nyissan men all wore
loose-fitting robes of a light, iridescent fabric, and their heads were all
shaved completely bald. As he walked along behind Aunt Pol, Garion noticed with
a certain distaste that the Nyissans wore elaborate makeup on their eyes, and
that their lips and cheeks were rouged. Their speech was rasping and sibilant,
and they all seemed to affect a lisp.
The heavy clouds had by now completely obscured the sky, and the street seemed
suddenly dark. A dozen wretched, near-naked men were repairing a section of
cobblestones. Their unkempt hair and shaggy beards indicated that they were not
Nyissan, and there were shackles and chains attached to their ankles. A
brutal-looking Nyissan stood over them with a whip, and the fresh welts and cuts
on their bodies spoke mutely of the freedom with which he used it. One of the
miserable slaves accidentally dropped an armload of crudely squared-off stones
on his foot and opened his mouth with an animal-like howl of pain. With horror,
Garion saw that the slave's tongue had been cut out.
"They reduce men to the level of beasts," Mandorallen growled, his eyes burning
with a terrible anger. "Why has this cesspool not been cleansed?"
"It was once," Barak said grimly. "Just after the Nyissans assassinated the
Rivan King, the Alorns came down here and killed every Nyissan they could find."
"Their numbers appear undiminished," Mandorallen said, looking around.
Barak shrugged. "It was thirteen hundred years ago. Even a single pair of rats
could reestablish their species in that length of time."
Durnik, who was walking beside Garion, gasped suddenly and averted his eyes,
blushing furiously.
A Nyissan lady had just stepped from a litter carried by eight slaves. The
fabric of her pale green gown was so flimsy that it was nearly transparent and
left very little to the imagination. "Don't look at her, Garion," Durnik
whispered hoarsely, still blushing. "She's a wicked woman."
"I'd forgotten about that," Aunt Pol said with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe we
should have left Durnik and Garion on the ship."
"Why's she dressed like that?" Garion asked, watching the nearly nude woman.
"Undressed, you mean." Durnik's voice was strangled with outrage.
"It's the custom," Aunt Pol explained. "It has to do with the climate. There are
some other reasons, of course, but we don't need to go into those just now. All
Nyissan women dress that way."
Barak and Greldik were watching the woman also, their broad grins appreciative.
"Never mind," Aunt Pol told them firmly.
Not far away a shaven-headed Nyissan stood leaning against a wall, staring at
his hand and giggling senselessly. "I can see right through my fingers," he
announced in a hissing lisp. "Right through them."
"Drunk?" Hettar asked.
"Not exactly," Aunt Pol answered. "Nyissans have peculiar amusements - leaves,
bernes, certain roots. Their perceptions get modified. It's a bit more serious
than the common drunkenness one finds among Alorns."
Another Nyissan shambled by, his gait curiously jerky and his expression blank.
"Doth this condition prevail widely?" Mandorallen asked.
"I've never met a Nyissan yet who wasn't at least partially drugged," Aunt Pol
said. "It makes them difficult to talk to. Isn't that the house we're looking
for?" She pointed at a solid building across the street.
There was an ominous rumble of thunder off to the south as they crossed to the
large house. A Drasnian servant in a linen tunic answered their knock, let them
into a dimly lighted antechamber, and told them to wait.
"An evil city," Hettar said quietly. "I can't see why any Alorn in his right
mind would come here willingly."
"Money," Captain Greldik replied shortly. "The Nyissan trade is very
profitable."
"There are more important things than money," Hettar muttered.
An enormously fat man came into the dim room. "More light," he snapped at his
servant. "You didn't have to leave them here in the dark."
"You said that the lamps just made it hotter," the servant protested in a surly
tone. "I wish you'd make up your mind."
"Never mind what I said; just do as I say."
"The climate's making you incoherent, Droblek," the servant noted acidly. He lit
several lamps and left the room muttering to himself.
"Drasnians make the world's worst servants," Droblek grumbled.
"Shall we get down to business?" He lowered his vast bulk into a chair. The
sweat rolled continually down his face and into the damp collar of his brown
silk robe.
"My name's Greldik," the bearded seaman said. "I've just arrived at your wharves
with a shipload of goods belonging to the merchant, Radek of Boktor." He
presented the folded packets of parchment.
Droblek's eyes narrowed. "I didn't know that Radek was interested in the
southern trade. I thought he dealt mostly in Sendaria and Arendia."
Greldik shrugged indifferently. "I didn't ask him. He pays me to carry his goods
in my ship, not to ask questions about his business."
Droblek looked at them all, his sweating face expressionless. Then his fingers
moved slightly.-Is everything here what it seems to be? The Drasnian secret
language made his fat fingers suddenly nimble.
Can we speak openly here? Aunt Pol's fingers asked him. Her gestures were
stately, somehow archaic. There was a kind of formality to her movements that
Garion had not seen in the signs made by others.
As openly as anyplace in this pest-hole - Droblek replied,-You have a strange
accent, lady. There's something about it that it seems I should remember- '
I learned the language a very long time ago-she replied.-You know who Radek of
Boktor really is, of course"Naturally," Droblek said aloud. "Everyone knows that. Sometimes he calls
himself Ambar of Kotu - when he wants to have dealings that are not, strictly
speaking, legitimate."
"Shall we stop fencing with each other, Droblek?" Aunt Pol asked quietly. "I'm
quite certain you've received instructions from King Rhodar by now. All this
dancing about is tiresome."
Droblek's face darkened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I'll need a bit more in
the way of verification."
"Don't be an idiot, Droblek," Barak rumbled at the fat man. "Use your eyes.
You're an Alorn; you know who the lady is."
Droblek looked suddenly at Aunt Pol, his eyes going very wide. "It's not
possible," he gasped.
"Would you like to have her prove it to you?" Hettar suggested. The house shook
with a sudden crash of thunder.
"No, no," Droblek refused hastily, still staring at Aunt Pol. "It just never
occurred to me - I mean, I just never-" He floundered with it.
"Have you heard from Prince Kheldar or my father?" Aunt Pol asked crisply.
"Your father? You mean-? Is he involved in this too?"
"Really, Droblek," she said tartly, "don't you believe the communications King
Rhodar sends you?"
Droblek shook his head like a man trying to clear his mind. "I'm sorry, Lady
Polgara," he said. "You surprised me, that's all. It takes a moment to get used
to. We didn't think you'd be coming this far south."
"It's obvious then that you haven't received any word from Kheldar or the old
man."
"No, my Lady," Droblek said. "Nothing. Are they supposed to be here?"
"So they said. They were either going to meet us here or send word."
"It's very hard to get messages any place in Nyissa," Droblek explained. "The
people here aren't very reliable. The prince and your father could be upcountry,
and their messenger could very well have gone astray. I sent a messenger to a
place not ten leagues from the city once, and it took six months to arrive. The
Nyissan who was carrying it found a certain berry patch along the way. We found
him sitting in the middle of the patch, smiling." Droblek made a sour face.
"There was moss growing on him," he added.
"Dead?" Durnik asked.
Droblek shrugged. "No, just very happy. He enjoyed the berries very much. I
dismissed him at once, but he didn't seem to mind. For all I know, he's still
sitting there."
"How extensive is your network here in Sthiss Tor?" Aunt Pol asked.
Droblek spread his pudgy hands modestly. "I manage to pick up a bit of
information here and there. I've got a few people in the palace and a minor
official at the Tolnedran embassy. The Tolnedrans are very thorough." He grinned
impishly. "It's cheaper to let them do all the work and then buy the information
after they've gathered it."
"If you can believe what they tell you," Hettar suggested.
"I never take what they say at face value," Droblek said. "The Tolnedran
ambassador knows that I've bought his man. He tries to trip me up with false
leads now and then."
"Does the ambassador know that you know?" Hettar asked.
"Of course he does." The fat man laughed. "But he doesn't think that I'm aware
of the fact that he knows that I know." He laughed again. "It's all terribly
complicated, isn't it?"
"Most Drasnian games usually are," Barak observed.
"Does the name Zedar mean anything to you?" Aunt Pol asked.
"I've heard it, naturally," Droblek said.
"Has he been in touch with Salmissra?"
Droblek frowned. "I couldn't say for sure. I haven't heard that he has, but that
doesn't mean that he hasn't. Nyissa's a murky sort of place, and Salmissra's
palace is the murkiest spot in the whole country. You wouldn't believe some of
the things that go on there."
"I'd believe them," Aunt Pol said, "and probably things you haven't even begun
to guess." She turned back to the others. "I think we're at a standstill. We
can't make any kind of move until we hear from Silk and the Old Wolf."
"Could I offer you my house?" Droblek asked.
"I think we'll stay on board Captain Greldik's ship," she told him. "As you say,
Nyissa's a murky place, and I'm sure that the Tolnedran ambassadors bought a few
people in your establishment."
"Naturally," Droblek agreed. "But I know who they are."
"We'd better not chance it," she told him. "There are several reasons for our
avoiding Tolnedrans just now. We'll stay aboard the ship and keep out of sight.
Let us know as soon as Prince Kheldar gets in touch with you."
"Of course," Droblek said. "You'll have to wait until the rain lets up, though.
Listen to it." There was the thundering sound of a downpour on the roof
overhead.
"Will it last long?" Durnik asked.
Droblek shrugged. "An hour or so usually. It rains every afternoon during this
season."
"I imagine it helps to cool the air," the smith said.
"Not significantly," the Drasnian told him. "Usually it just makes things
worse." He mopped the sweat from his fat face.
"How can you live here?" Durnik asked.
Droblek smiled blandly. "Fat men don't move around all that much. I'm making a
great deal of money, and the game I'm playing with the Tolnedran ambassador
keeps my mind occupied. It's not all that bad, once you get used to it. It helps
if I keep telling myself that."
They sat quietly then, listening to the pounding rain.
Chapter Twenty-five
FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS they all remained aboard Greldik's ship, waiting for
word from Silk and Mister Wolf. Ce'Nedra recovered from her indisposition and
appeared on deck wearing a palecolored Dryad tunic which seemed to Garion to be
only slightly less revealing than the gowns worn by Nyissan women. When he
rather stiffly suggested that she ought to put on a few more clothes, however,
she merely laughed at him. With a single-mindedness that made him want to grind
his teeth, she returned to the task of teaching him to read and write. They sat
together in an out-of the-way spot on deck, poring over a tedious book on
Tolnedran diplomacy. The whole business seemed to Garion to be taking forever,
though in fact his mind was very quick, and he was learning surprisingly fast.
Ce'Nedra was too thoughtless to compliment him, though she seemed to await his
next mistake almost breathlessly, delighting it seemed in each opportunity to
ridicule him. Her proximity and her light, spicy perfume distracted him as they
sat close beside each other, and he perspired as much from their occasional
touch of hand or arm or hip as he did from the climate. Because they were both
young, she was intolerant and he was stubborn. The sticky, humid heat made them
both short-tempered and irritable, so the lessons erupted into bickering more
often than not.
When they arose one morning, a black, square-rigged Nyissan ship rocked in the
river current at a nearby wharf. A foul, evil kind of reek carried to them from
her on the fitful morning breeze.
"What's that smell?" Garion asked one of the sailors.
"Slaves," the sailor answered grimly, pointing at the Nyissan ship. "You can
smell them twenty miles away when you're at sea."
Garion looked at the ugly black ship and shuddered.
Barak and Mandorallen drifted across the deck and joined Garion at the rail.
"Looks like a scow," Barak said of the Nyissan ship, his voice heavy with
contempt. He was stripped to the waist, and his hairy torso ran with sweat.
"It's a slave ship," Garion told him.
"It smells like an open sewer," Barak complained. "A good fire would improve it
tremendously."
"A sorry trade, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen said. "Nyissa hath dealt in human
misery for untold centuries."
"Is that a Drasnian wharf?" Barak asked with narrowed eyes.
"No," Garion answered. "The sailors say that everything on that side's Nyissan."
"That's a shame," Barak growled.
A group of mail-shirted men in black cloaks walked out onto the wharf where the
slave ship was moored and stopped near the vessel's stern.
"Oh-oh," Barak said. "Where's Hettar?"
"He's still below," Garion replied. "What's the matter?"
"Keep an eye out for him. Those are Murgos."
The shaven-headed Nyissan sailors pulled open a hatch on their ship and barked a
few rough orders down into the hold. Slowly, a line of dispirited-looking men
came up. Each man wore an iron collar, and a long chain fastened them together.
Mandorallen stiffened and began to swear.
"What's wrong?" Barak asked.
"Arendishmen!" the knight exclaimed. "I had heard of this, but I did not believe
it."
"Heard of what?"
"An ugly rumor hath persisted in Arendia for some years," Mandorallen answered,
his face white with rage. "We are told that some of our nobles have upon
occasion enriched themselves by selling their serfs to the Nyissans."
"Looks like it's more than a rumor," Barak said.
"There," Mandorallen growled. "See that crest upon the tunic of that one there?
It's the crest of Vo Toral. I know the Baron of Vo Toral for a notorious
spendthrift, but had not thought him dishonorable. Upon my return to Arendia, I
will denounce him publicly."
"What good's that going to do?" Barak asked.
"He will be forced to challenge me," Mandorallen said grimly. "I will prove his
villainy upon his body."
Barak shrugged. "Serf or slave - what's the difi'erence?"
"Those men have rights, my Lord," Mandorallen stated. "Their Lord is required to
protect them and care for them. The oath of knighthood demands it of us. This
vile transaction hath stained the honor of every true Arendish knight. I shall
not rest until I have bereft that foul baron of his miserable life."
"Interesting idea," Barak said. "Maybe I'll go with you."
Hettar came up on deck, and Barak moved immediately to his side and began
talking quietly to him, holding one of his arms firmly.
"Make them jump around a bit," one of the Murgos ordered harshly. "I want to see
how many are lame."
A heavy-shouldered Nyissan uncoiled a long whip and began to flick it deftly at
the legs of the chained men. The slaves began to dance feverishly on the wharf
beside the slave ship.
"Dog's blood!" Mandorallen swore, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped
the railing.
"Easy," Garion warned. "Aunt Pol says we're supposed to stay pretty much out of
sight."
"It cannot be borne!" Mandorallen cried.
The chain that bound the slaves together was old and pitted with rust. When one
slave tripped and fell, a link snapped, and the man found himself suddenly free.
With an agility born of desperation, he rolled quickly to his feet, took two
quick steps and plunged off the wharf into the murky waters of the river.
"This way, man!" Mandorallen called to the swimming slave.
The burly Nyissan with the whip laughed harshly and pointed at the escaping
slave. "Watch," he told the Murgos.
"Stop him, you idiot," one of the Murgos snapped. "I paid good gold for him."
"It's too late." The Nyissan looked on with an ugly grin. "Watch." The swimming
man suddenly shrieked and sank out of sight. When he came up again, his face and
arms were covered with the slimy, footlong leeches that infested the river.
Screaming, the struggling man tore at the writhing leeches, ripping out chunks
of his own flesh in his efforts to pull them off.
The Murgos began to laugh.
Garion's mind exploded. He gathered himself with an awful concentration, pointed
one hand at the wharf just beyond their own ship and said, "Be there!" He felt
an enormous surge as if some vast tide were rushing out of him, and he reeled
almost senseless against Mandorallen. The sound inside his head was deafening.
The slave, still writhing and covered with the oozing leeches, was suddenly
lying on the wharf. A wave of exhaustion swept over Garion; if Mandorallen had
not caught him, he would have fallen.
"Where did he go?" Barak demanded, still staring at the turbulent spot on the
surface of the river where the slave had been an instant before. "Did he go
under?"
Wordlessly and with a shaking hand, Mandorallen pointed at the slave, who lay
still weakly struggling on the Drasnian wharf about twenty yards in front of the
bow of their ship.
Barak looked at the slave, then back at the river. The big man blinked with
surprise.
A small boat with four Nyissans at the oars put out from the other wharf and
moved deliberately toward Greldik's ship. A tall Murgo stood in the bow, his
scarred face angry.
"You have my property," he shouted across the intervening water. "Return the
slave to me at once."
"Why don't you come and claim him, Murgo?" Barak called back. He released
Hettar's arm. The Algar moved to the side of the ship, stopping only to pick up
a long boathook.
"Will I be unmolested?" the Murgo asked a bit doubtfully.
"Why don't you come alongside, and we'll discuss it?" Barak suggested
pleasantly.
"You're denying me my rights to my own property," the Murgo complained.
"Not at all," Barak told him. "Of course there might be a fine point of law
involved here. This wharf is Drasnian territory, and slavery isn't legal in
Drasnia. Since that's the case, the man's not a slave anymore."
"I'll get my men," the Murgo said. "We'll take the slave by force if we have
to."
"I think we'd have to look on that as an invasion of Alorn territory," Barak
warned with a great show of regret. "In the absence of our Drasnian cousins,
we'd almost be compelled to take steps to defend their wharf for them. What do
you think, Mandorallen?"
"Thy perceptions are most acute, my Lord," Mandorallen replied. "By common
usage, honorable men are morally obliged to defend the territory of kinsmen in
their absence."
"There," Barak said to the Murgo. "You see how it is. My friend here is an
Arend, so he's totally neutral in this matter. I think we'd have to accept his
interpretation of the affair."
Greldik's sailors had begun to climb the rigging by now, and they clung to the
ropes like great, evil-looking apes, fingering their weapons and grinning at the
Murgo.
"There is yet another way," the Murgo said ominously.
Garion could feel a force beginning to build, and a faint sound seemed to echo
inside his head. He drew himself up, putting his hands on the wooden rail in
front of him. He felt a terrible weakness, but he steeled himself and tried to
gather his strength.
"That's enough of that," Aunt Pol said crisply, coming up on deck with Durnik
and Ce'Nedra behind her.
"We were merely having a little legal discussion," Barak said innocently.
"I know what you were doing," she snapped. Her eyes were angry. She looked
coldly across the intervening stretch of river at the Murgo.
"You'd better leave," she told him.
"I have something to retrieve first," the man in the boat called back.
"I'd forget about it!"
"We'll see," he said. He straightened and began muttering as if to himself, his
hands moving rapidly in a series of intricate gestures. Garion felt something
pushing at him almost like a wind, though the air was completely still.
"Be sure you get it right," Aunt Pol advised quietly. "If you forget even the
tiniest part of it, it'll explode in your face."
The man in the boat froze, and a faintly worried frown crossed his face. The
secret wind that had been pushing at Garion stopped. The man began again, his
fingers weaving in the air and his face fixed with concentration.
"You do it like this, Grolim," Aunt Pol said. She moved her hand slightly, and
Garion felt a sudden rush as if the wind pushing at him had turned and begun to
blow the other way. The Grolim threw his hands up and reeled back, stumbling and
falling into the bottom of his boat. As if it had been given a heavy push, the
boat surged backward several yards.
The Grolim half raised, his eyes wide and his face deathly pale.
"Return to your master, dog," Aunt Pol said scathingly. "Tell him to beat you
for not learning your lessons properly."
The Grolim spoke quickly to the Nyissans at the oars, and they immediately
turned the boat and rowed back toward the slave ship.
"We had a nice little fight brewing there, Polgara," Barak complained. "Why did
you have to spoil it?"
"Grow up," she ordered bluntly. Then she turned on Garion, her eyes blazing and
the white lock at her brow like a streak of fire. "You idiot! You refuse any
kind of instruction, and then you burst out like a raging bull. Have you the
slightest conception of what an uproar translocation causes? You've alerted
every Grolim in Sthiss Tor to the fact that we're here."
"He was dying," Garion protested, gesturing helplessly at the slave lying on the
wharf. "I had to do something."
"He was dead as soon as he hit the water," she said flatly. "Look at him."
The slave had stiffened into an arched posture of mortal agony, his head twisted
back and his mouth agape. He was obviously dead.
"What happened to him?" Garion asked, feeling suddenly sick.
"The leeches are poisonous. Their bites paralyze their victims so that they can
feed on them undisturbed. The bites stopped his heart. You exposed us to the
Grolims for the sake of a dead man."
"He wasn't dead when I did it!" Garion shouted at her. "He was screaming for
help." He was angrier than he had ever been in his life.
"He was beyond help." Her voice was cold, even brutal.
"What kind of monster are you?" he asked from between clenched teeth. "Don't you
have any feelings? You'd have just let him die, wouldn't you?"
"I don't think this is the time or place to discuss it."
"No! This is the time-right now, Aunt Pol. You're not even human, did you know
that? You left being human behind so long ago that you can't even remember where
you lost it. You're four thousand years old. Our whole lives go by while you
blink your eyes. We're just an entertainment for you - an hour's diversion. You
manipulate us like puppets for your own amusement. Well, I'm tired of being
manipulated. You and I are finished!"
It probably went further than he'd intended, but his anger had finally run away
with him, and the words seemed to rush out before he could stop them.
She looked at him, her face as pale as if he had suddenly struck her. Then she
drew herself up. "You stupid boy," she said in a voice that was all the more
terrible because it was so quiet. "Finished? You and I? How can you even begin
to understand what I've had to do to bring you to this world? You've been my
only care for over a thousand years. I've endured anguish and loss and pain
beyond your ability to understand what the words mean - all for you. I've lived
in poverty and squalor for hundreds of years at a time - all for you. I gave up
a sister I loved more than my life itself - all for you. I've gone through fire
and despair worse than fire a dozen times over - all for you. And you think this
has all been an entertainment for me? - some idle amusement? You think the kind
of care I've devoted to you for a thousand years and more comes cheaply? You and
I will never be finished, Belgarion. Never! We will go on together until the end
of days if necessary. We will never be finished. You owe me too much for that!"
There was a dreadful silence. The others, shocked by the intensity of Aunt Pol's
words, stood staring first at her and then at Garion.
Without speaking further, she turned and went below decks again. Garion looked
around helplessly, suddenly terribly ashamed and terribly alone.
"I had to do it, didn't I?" he asked of no one in particular and not entirely
sure exactly what it was that he meant.
They all looked at him, but no one answered his question.
Chapter Twenty-six
BY MIDAFTERNOON THE CLOUDS had rolled in again, and the thunder began to rumble
off in the distance as the rain swept in to drown the steaming city once more.
The afternoon thunderstorm seemed to come at the same time each day, and they
had even grown accustomed to it. They all moved below deck and sat sweltering as
the rain roared down on the deck above them.
Garion sat stifliy, his back planted against a rough-hewn oak rib of the ship
and watched Aunt Pol, his face set stubbornly and his eyes unforgiving.
She ignored him and sat talking quietly with Ce'Nedra.
Captain Greldik came through the narrow companionway door, his face and beard
streaming water. "The Drasnian-Droblek-is here," he told them. "He says he's got
word for you."
"Send him in," Barak said.
Droblek squeezed his vast bulk through the narrow door. He was totally drenched
from the rain and stood dripping on the Hoor. He wiped his face. "It's wet out
there," he commented.
"We noticed," Hettar said.
"I've received a message," Droblek told Aunt Pol. "It's from Prince Kheldar."
"Finally," she said.
"He and Belgarath are coming downriver," Droblek reported. "As closely as I can
make out, they should be here in a few days - a week at the most. The messenger
isn't very coherent."
Aunt Pol looked at him inquiringly.
"Fever," Droblek explained. "The man's a Drasnian, so he's reliable - one of my
agents at an upcountry trading post - but he's picked up one of the diseases
that infest this stinking swamp. He's a little delirious just now. We hope we
can break the fever in a day or so and get some sense out of him. I came as soon
as I got the general idea of his message. I thought you'd want to know
immediately."
"We appreciate your concern," Aunt Pol said.
"I'd have sent a servant," Droblek explained, "but messages sometimes go astray
in Sthiss Tor, and servants sometimes get things twisted around." He grinned
suddenly. "That's not the real reason, of course."
Aunt Pol smiled, "Of course not."
"A fat man tends to stay in one place and let others do his walking around for
him. From the tone of King Rhodar's message, I gather that this business might
be the most important thing happening in the world just now. I wanted to take
part in it." He made a wry face. "We all lapse into childishness from time to
time, I suppose."
"How serious is the condition of the messenger?" Aunt Pol asked.
Droblek shrugged. "Who can say? Half of these pestilential fevers in Nyissa
don't even have names, and we can't really tell one from another. Sometimes
people die very quickly from them; sometimes they linger for weeks. Now and then
someone even recovers. About all we can do is make them comfortable and wait to
see what happens."
"I'll come at once," Aunt Pol said, rising. "Durnik, would you get me the green
bag from our packs? I'll need the herbs I have in it."
"It's not always a good idea to expose oneself to some of these fevers, my
Lady," Droblek cautioned.
"I won't be in any danger," she said. "I want to question your messenger
closely, and the only way I'll be able to get any answers from him is to rid him
of his fever."
"Durnik and I'll come along," Barak offered.
She looked at him.
"It doesn't hurt to be on the safe side," the big man said, belting on his
sword.
"If you wish." She put on her cloak and turned up the hood. "This may take most
of the night," she told Greldik. "There are Grolims about, so have your sailors
stay alert. Put a few of the more sober ones on watch."
"Sober, my Lady?" Greldik asked innocently.
"I've heard the singing coming from the crew's quarters, Captain," she said a
bit primly, "Chereks don't sing unless they're drunk. Keep the lid on your
ale-barrel tonight. Shall we go, Droblek?"
"At once, my Lady," the fat man assented with a sly look at Greldik.
Garion felt a certain relief after they had gone. The strain of maintaining his
rancor in Aunt Pol's presence had begun to wear on him. He found himself in a
difficult position. The horror and self-loathing which had gnawed at him since
he had unleashed the dreadful fire upon Chamdar in the Wood of the Dryads had
grown until he could scarcely bear it. He looked forward to each night with
dread, for his dreams were always the same. Over and over again he saw Chamdar,
his face burned away, pleading, "Master, have mercy." And over and over again he
saw the awful blue flame that had come from his own hand in answer to that
agony. The hatred he had carried since Val Alorn had died in that flame. His
revenge had been so absolute that there was no possible way he could evade or
shift the responsibility for it. His outburst that morning had been directed
almost more at himself than at Aunt Pol, He had called her a monster, but it was
the monster within himself he hated. The dreadful catalogue of what she had
suffered over uncounted years for him and the passion with which she had spoken
- evidence of the pain his words had caused her - twisted searingly in his mind.
He was ashamed, so ashamed that he could not even bear to look into the faces of
his friends. He sat alone and vacant-eyed with Aunt Pol's words thundering over
and over in his mind.
The rain slackened on the deck above them as the storm passed. Swirling little
eddies of raindrops ran across the muddy surface of the river in the fitful
wind. The sky began to clear, and the sun sank into the roiling clouds, staining
them an angry red. Garion went up on deck to wrestle alone with his troubled
conscience.
After a while he heard a light step behind him. "I suppose you're proud of
yourself?" Ce'Nedra asked acidly.
"Leave me alone."
"I don't think so. I think I want to tell you just exactly how we all felt about
your little speech this morning."
"I don't want to hear about it."
"That's too bad. I'm going to tell you anyway."
"I won't listen."
"Oh yes, you will," She took him by the arm and turned him around. Her eyes were
blazing and her tiny face filled with a huge anger. "What you did was absolutely
inexcusable," she said. "Your Aunt raised you from a baby. She's been a mother
to you."
"My mother's dead."
"The Lady Polgara's the only mother you ever knew, and what did you give her for
thanks? You called her a monster. You accused her of not caring."
"I'm not listening to you," Garion cried. Knowing that it was childish - even
infantile - he put his hands over his ears. The Princess Ce'Nedra always seemed
to bring out the worst in him.
"Move your hands!" she commanded in a ringing voice. "You're going to hear me
even if I have to scream."
Garion, afraid that she meant it, took his hands away.
"She carned you when you were a baby," Ce'Nedra went on, seeming to know exactly
where the sorest spot on Garion's wounded conscience lay. "She watched your very
first steps. She fed you; she watched over you; she held you when you were
afraid or hurt. Does that sound like a monster? She watches you all the time,
did you know that? If you even so much as stumble, she almost reaches out to
catch you. I've seen her cover you when you're asleep. Does that sound like
someone who doesn't care?"
"You're talking about something you don't understand," Garion told her. "Please,
just leave me alone."
"Please?" she repeated mockingly. "What a strange time for you to remember your
manners. I didn't hear you saying please this morning. I didn't hear a single
please. I didn't hear any thank you's either. Do you know what you are, Garion?
You're a spoiled child, that's what you are."
That did it! To have this pampered, willful little princess call him a spoiled
child was more than Garion could bear. Infuriated, he began to shout at her.
Most of what he said was wildly incoherent, but the shouting made him feel
better.
They started with accusations, but the argument soon degenerated into
name-calling. Ce'Nedra was screeching like a Camaar fishwife, and Garion's voice
cracked and warbled between a manly baritone and a boyish tenor. They shook
their fingers in each other's faces and shouted. Ce'Nedra stamped her feet, and
Garion waved his arms. All in all, it was a splendid little fight. Garion felt
much better when it was over. Yelling insults at Ce'Nedra was an innocent
diversion compared to some of the deadly things he'd said to Aunt Pol that
morning, and it allowed him to vent his confusion and anger harmlessly.
In the end, of course, Ce'Nedra resorted to tears and fled, leaving him feeling
more foolish than ashamed. He fumed a bit, muttering a few choice insults he
hadn't had the opportunity to deliver, and then he sighed and leaned pensively
on the rail to watch night settle in over the dank city.
Though he would not have cared to admit it, even to himself, he was grateful to
the princess. Their descent into absurdity had cleared his head. Quite clearly
now he saw that he owed Aunt Pol an apology. He had lashed out at her out of his
own sense of deep-seated guilt, trying somehow to shift the blame to her. Quite
obviously there was no way to evade his own responsibility. Having accepted
that, he seemed for some reason to feel better.
It grew darker. The tropical night was heavy, and the smell of rotting
vegetation and stagnant water rolled in out of the trackless swamps. A vicious
little insect crawled down inside his tunic and began to bite him somewhere
between his shoulders where he could not reach.
There was absolutely no warning - no sound or lurch of the ship or any hint of
danger. His arms were seized from behind and a wet cloth was pressed firmly over
his mouth and nose. He tried to struggle, but the hands holding him were very
strong. He tried to twist his head to get his face clear enough to shout for
help. The cloth smelled strange - cloying, sickeningly sweet, thick somehow. He
began to feel dizzy, and his struggles grew weaker. He made one last effort
before the dizziness overcame him and he sank down into unconsciousness.
Chapter Twenty-seven
THEY WERE IN A LONG HALLWAY of some sort. Garion could see the flagstone floor
quite clearly. Three men were carrying him face down, and his head bobbed and
swung on his neck uncomfortably. His mouth was dry, and the thick, sweet smell
that had impregnated the cloth they had crushed to his face lingered. He raised
his head, trying to look around.
"He's awake," the man holding one of his arms said.
"Finally," one of the others muttered. "You held the cloth to his face too long,
Issus."
"I know what I'm doing," the first one said.
"Put him down."
"Can you stand?" Issus asked Garion. His shaved head was stubbled, and he had a
long scar running from his forehead to his chin directly through the puckered
vacancy of an empty eye-socket. His belted robe was stained and spotted.
"Get up," Issus ordered in a hissing kind of voice. He nudged Garion with his
foot. Garion struggled to rise. His knees were shaky, and he put his hand on the
wall to steady himself. The stones were damp and covered with a kind of mold.
"Bring him," Issus told the others. They took Garion's arms and halfdragged,
half-carried him down the damp passageway behind the oneeyed man. When they came
out of the corridor, they were in a vaulted area that seemed not so much like a
room but rather a large roofed place. Huge pillars, covered with carvings,
supported the soaring ceiling, and small oil lamps hung on long chains from
above or sat on little stone shelves on the pillars. There was a confused sense
of movement as groups of men in varicolored robes drifted from place to place in
a kind of langorous stupor.
"You," Issus snapped at a plump young man with dreamy eyes, "tell Sadi, the
chief eunuch, that we have the boy."
"Tell him yourself," the young man said in a piping voice. "I don't take orders
from your kind, Issus."
Issus slapped the plump young man sharply across the face.
"You hit me!" the plump one wailed, putting his hand to his mouth. "You made my
lip bleed - see?" He held out his hand to show the blood.
"If you don't do what I tell you to do, I'll cut your fat throat," Issus told
him in a flat, unemotional voice.
"I'm going to tell Sadi what you did."
"Go ahead. And as long as you're there, tell him that we've got the boy the
queen wanted."
The plump young man scurried away.
"Eunuchs!" One of the men holding Garion's arm spat.
"They have their uses," the other said with a coarse laugh.
"Bring the boy," Issus ordered. "Sadi doesn't like to be kept waiting."
They pulled Garion across the lighted area.
A group of wretched-looking men with unkempt hair and beards sat chained
together on the floor. "Water," one of them croaked. "Please." He stretched out
an imploring hand.
Issus stopped and stared at the slave in amazement. "Why does this one still
have its tongue?" he demanded of the guard who stood over the slaves.
The guard shrugged. "We haven't had time to attend to that yet."
"Take time," Issus told him. "If one of the priests hear it talk, they'll have
you questioned. You wouldn't like that."
"I'm not afraid of the priests," the guard said, but he looked nervously over
his shoulder.
"Be afraid," Issus advised him. "And water these animals. They're no good to
anybody dead." He started to lead the men holding Garion through a shadowy area
between two pillars, then stopped again. "Get out of my way," he said to
something lying in the shadows. Grudgingly, the thing began to move. With
revulsion Garion realized that it was a large snake.
"Get over there with the others," Issus told the snake. He pointed toward a
dimly lighted corner where a large mass seemed to be undulating, moving with a
kind of sluggish seething. Faintly Garion could hear the dry hiss of scales
rubbing together. The snake which had barred their way flicked a nervous tongue
at Issus, then slithered toward the dim corner.
"Someday you're going to get bitten, Issus," one of the men warned. "They don't
like being ordered around."
Issus shrugged indifferently and moved on.
"Sadi wants to talk to you," the plump young eunuch said spitefully to Issus as
they approached a large polished door. "I told him that you hit me. Maas is with
him."
"Good," Issus said. He pushed the door open. "Sadi," he called sharply, "tell
your friend I'm coming in. I don't want him making any mistakes."
"He knows you, Issus," a voice on the other side of the door said. "He won't do
anything by mistake."
Issus went in and closed the door behind him.
"You can leave now," one of the men holding Garion told the young eunuch.
The plump one sniffed. "I go where Sadi tells me to go."
"And come running when Sadi whistles, too."
"That's between Sadi and me, isn't it?"
"Bring him in," Issus ordered, opening the door again.
The two men pushed Garion into the room. "We'll wait out here," one of them said
nervously.
Issus laughed harshly, pushed the door shut with his foot, and pulled Garion to
the front of a table where a single oil lamp flickered with a tiny flame that
barely held back the darkness. A thin man with deadlooking eyes sat at the
table, lightly stroking his hairless head with the long fingers of one hand.
"Can you speak, boy?" he asked Garion. His voice had a strange contralto quality
to it, and his silk robe was a solid crimson rather than varicolored.
"Could I have a drink of water?" Garion asked.
"In a minute."
"I'll take my money now, Sadi," Issus said.
"As soon as we're sure this is the right boy," Sadi replied.
"Ask it what its name is," a hissing whisper said from the darkness behind
Garion.
"I will, Maas." Sadi looked faintly annoyed at the suggestion. "I've done this
before."
"You're taking too long," the whisper said.
"Say your name, boy," Sadi told Garion.
"Doroon," Garion lied quickly. "I'm really very thirsty."
"Do you take me for a fool, Issus?" Sadi asked. "Did you think just any boy
would satisfy me?"
"This is the boy you told me to fetch," Issus said. "I can't help it if your
information was wrong."
"You say your name is Doroon?" Sadi asked.
"Yes," Garion said. "I'm the cabin-boy on Captain Greldik's ship. Where are we?"
"I'll ask the questions, boy," Sadi said.
"It's lying," the sibilant whisper came from behind Garion.
"I know that, Maas," Sadi replied calmly. "They always do at first."
"We don't have time for all this," the hiss said. "Give it oret. I need the
truth immediately."
"Whatever you say, Maas," Sadi agreed. He rose to his feet and disappeared
momentarily into the shadows behind the table. Garion heard a clink and then the
sound of water pouring. "Remembering that this was your idea, Maas. If she
becomes angry about it, I don't want to be the one she blames."
"She'll understand, Sadi."
"Here, boy," Sadi offered, coming back into the light and holding out a brown
earthenware cup.
"Uh-no, thank you," Garion said. "I guess I'm not really thirsty after all."
"You might as well drink it, boy," Sadi told him. "If you don't, Issus will hold
you, and I'll pour it down your throat. It isn't going to hurt you.
"Drink," the hissing voice commanded.
"Better do as they say," Issus advised.
Helplessly Garion took the cup. The water had a strangely bitter taste and
seemed to burn his tongue.
"Much better," Sadi said, resuming his seat behind the table. "Now, you say your
name is Doroon?"
"Yes."
"Where are you from, Doroon?"
"Sendaria."
"Where exactly in Sendaria?"
"Near Darine on the north coast."
"What are you doing on a Cherek ship?"
"Captain Greldik's a friend of my father," Garion said. For some reason he
suddenly wanted to explain further. "My father wanted me to learn about ships.
He says that being a sailor's better than being a farmer. Captain Greldik agreed
to teach me what I'd need to know to be a sailor. He says I'll be good at it
because I didn't even get seasick, and I'm not afraid to climb up the ropes that
hold the sails in place, and I'm almost strong enough to pull an oar already,
and-"
"What did you say your name was, boy?"
"Garion - I mean - uh - Doroon. Yes, Doroon, and-"
"How old are you, Garion?"
"Fifteen last Erastide. Aunt Pol says that people who are born on Erastide are
very lucky, only I haven't noticed that I'm luckier than-"
"And who is Aunt Pol?"
"She's my aunt. We used to live on Faldor's farm, but Mister Wolf came and we-"
"Do people call her something besides Aunt Pol?"
"King Fulrach called her Polgara - that was when Captain Brendig took us all to
the palace in Sendar. Then we went to King Anheg's palace in Val Alorn, and-"
"Who's Mister Wolf?"
"My grandfather. They call him Belgarath. I didn't used to believe it, but I
guess it has to be true because one time he-"
"And why did you all leave Faldor's farm?"
"I didn't know why at first, but then I found out that it was because Zedar
stole the Orb of Aldur off the pommel of the Sword of the Rivan King, and we've
got to get it back before Zedar can take it to Torak and wake him up and-"
"This is the boy we want," the hissing voice whispered.
Garion turned around slowly. The room seemed brighter now, as if the tiny flame
were putting out more light. In the corner, rearing out of its own coils and
with a strangely flattened neck and glowing eyes was a very large snake.
"We can take it to Salmissra now," the snake hissed. It lowered itself to the
floor and crawled across to Garion. He felt its cold, dry nose touch his leg,
and then, though a hidden part of his mind shrieked, he stood unresisting as the
scaly body slowly mounted his leg and coiled upward until the snake's head
reared beside his face and its flickering tongue touched his face. "Be very
good, boy," the snake hissed in his ear, "very, very good." The reptile was
heavy, and its coils thick and cold.
"This way, boy," Sadi told Garion, rising to his feet.
"I want my money," Issus demanded.
"Oh," Sadi said almost contemptuously, "that. It's in that pouch there on the
table." Then he turned and led Garion from the room.
"Garion." The dry voice that had always been in his mind spoke quietly to him.
"I want you to listen carefully. Don't say anything or let anything show on your
face. Just listen to me. "
"Who are you?" Garion asked silently, struggling with the fog in his brain.
"You know me, " the dry voice told him. "Now listen. They've given you something
that makes you do what they want you to do. Don't fight against it. Just relax
and don't fight it. "
"But - I said things I shouldn't have. I-"
"That doesn't matter now. Just do as I say. If anything happens and it starts to
get dangerous, don't fight. I'll take care of it - but I can't do it if you're
struggling. You have to relax so that I can do what has to be done. If you
suddenly find yourself doing things or saying things you don't understand, don't
be afraid and don't try to fight. It won't be them; it will be me."
Comforted by this silent reassurance, Garion walked obediently beside Sadi the
eunuch while the coils of the snake, Maas, lay heavily about his chest and
shoulders and the bluntly pointed reptilian head rested, almost nuzzling,
against his cheek.
They entered a large room where the walls were heavily draped and crystal oil
lamps hung glittering on silver chains. An enormous stone statue, its upper
third lost in the shadows high above, raised its mass titanically at one end of
the room, and directly in front of the statue was a low stone platform, carpeted
and strewn with cushions. Upon the platform stood a heavy divan that was not
quite a chair and not quite a couch.
There was a woman on the divan. Her hair was raven black, cascading in loose
coils down her back and across her shoulders. About her head was an intricately
wrought golden crown sparkling with jewels. Her gown was white and spun of the
filmiest gauze. It did not in any way conceal her body, but rather seemed to be
worn only to provide a material to which her jewels and adornments could be
attached. Beneath the gauze, her skin was an almost chalky white, and her face
was extraordinarily beautiful. Her eyes were pale, even colorless. A large,
gold-framed mirror stood on a pedestal at one side of the divan, and the woman
lounged at ease, admiring herself in the glass.
Two dozen shaven-headed eunuchs in crimson robes knelt in a cluster to one side
of the dais, resting on their haunches and gazing at the woman and the statue
behind her with worshipful adoration.
Among the cushions at the side of the divan lolled an indolent, pampered-looking
young man whose head was riot shaved. His hair was elaborately curled, his
cheeks were rouged, and his eyes were fantastically made up. He wore only the
briefest of loincloths, and his expression was bored and sulky. The woman
absently ran the fingers of one hand through his curls as she watched herself in
the mirror.
"The queen has visitors," one of the kneeling eunuchs announced in a singsong
voice.
"Ah," the others chanted in unison, "visitors."
"Hail, Eternal Salmissra," Sadi the eunuch said, prostrating himself before the
dais and the pale-eyed woman.
"What is it, Sadi?" she demanded. Her voice was vibrant and had a strange, dark
timbre.
"The boy, my Queen," Sadi announced, his face still pressed to the floor.
"On your knees before the Serpent Queen," the snake hissed in Garion's ear. The
coils tightened about Garion's body, and he fell to his knees in their sudden
crushing grip.
"Come here, Maas," Salmissra said to the snake.
"The queen summons the beloved serpent," the eunuch intoned. "Ah."
The reptile uncoiled itself from about Garion's body and undulated up to the
foot of the divan, reared half its length above the reclining woman and then
lowered itself upon her body, its thick length curving, fitting itself to her.
The blunt head reached up to her face, and she kissed it affectionately. The
long, forked tongue flickered over her face, and Maas began to whisper
sibilantly in her ear. She lay in the embrace of the serpent, listening to its
hissing voice and looking at Garion with heavy-lidded eyes.
Then, pushing the reptile aside, the queen rose to her feet and stood over
Garion. "Welcome to the land of the snake-people, Belgarion," she said in her
purring voice.
The name, which he had heard only from Aunt Pol before, sent a strange shock
through Garion, and he tried to shake the fog from his head.
"Not yet,"the dry voice in his mind warned him.
Salmissra stepped down from the dais, her body moving with a sinuous grace
beneath her transparent gown. She took one of Garion's arms and drew him gently
to his feet; then she touched his face lingeringly. Her hand seemed very cold.
"A pretty young man," she breathed, almost as if to herself. "So young. So
warm." Her look seemed somehow hungry.
A strange confusion seemed to fill Garion's mind. The bitter drink Sadi had
given him still lay on his consciousness like a blanket. Beneath it he felt at
once afraid and yet strangely attracted to the queen. Her chalky skin and dead
eyes were repellent, yet there was a kind of lush invitation about her, an
overripe promise of unspeakable delights. Unconsciously he took a step backward.
"Don't be afraid, my Belgarion," she purred at him. "I won't hurt you - not
unless you want me to. Your duties here will be very pleasant, and I can teach
you things that Polgara hasn't even dreamed of."
"Come away from him, Salmissra," the young man on the dais ordered petulantly.
"You know I don't like it when you pay attention to others."
A flicker of annoyance showed in the queen's eyes. She turned and looked rather
coldly at the young man. "What you like or don't like doesn't really concern me
anymore, Essia," she said.
"What?" Essia cried incredulously.
"Do as I say at once!"
"No, Essia," she told him.
"I'll punish you," he threatened.
"No," she said, "you won't. That sort of thing doesn't amuse me anymore, and all
your pouting and tantrums have begun to grow boring. Leave now."
"Leave?" Essia's eyes bulged with disbelief.
"You're dismissed, Essia."
"Dismissed? But you can't live without me. You said so yourself."
"We all say things we don't mean sometimes."
The arrogance went out of the young man like water poured from a bucket. He
swallowed hard and began to tremble. "When do you want me to come back?" he
whined.
"1 don't, Essia."
"Never?" he gasped.
"Never," she told him. "Now go, and stop making a scene."
"What's to become of me?" Essia cried. He began to weep, the makeup around his
eyes running in grotesque streaks down his face.
"Don't be tiresome, Essia," Salmissra said. "Pick up your belongings and
leave-now! I have a new consort." She stepped back up on the dais.
"The queen has chosen a consort," the eunuch intoned.
"Ah," the others chanted. "Hail the consort of Eternal Salmissra, most fortunate
of men."
T'he sobbing young man grabbed up a pink robe and an ornately carved jewel box.
He stumbled down from the dais. "You did this," he accused Garion. "It's all
your fault." Suddenly, out of the folds of the robe draped over his arm, he
pulled a small dagger. "I'll fix you," he screamed, raising the dagger to
strike.
There was no thought this time, no gathering of will. The surge of force came
without warning, pushing Essia away, driving him back. He slashed futilely at
the air with his little knife. Then the surge was gone.
Essia lunged forward again, his eyes insane and his dagger raised. The surge
came again, stronger this time. The young man was spun away. He fell, and his
dagger clattered across the floor.
Salmissra, her eyes ablaze, pointed at the prostrate Essia and snapped her
fingers twice. So fast that it seemed almost like an arrow loosed from a bow, a
small green snake shot from beneath the divan, its mouth agape and its hiss a
kind of snarl. It struck once, hitting Essia high on the leg, then slithered
quickly to one side and watched with dead eyes.
Essia gasped and turned white with horror. He tried to rise, but his legs and
arms suddenly sprawled out from under him on the polished stones. He gave one
strangled cry and then the convulsions began. His heels pattered rapidly on the
floor, and his arms flailed wildly. His eyes turned vacant and staring, and a
green froth shot like a fountain from his mouth. His body arched back, every
muscle writhing beneath his skin, and his head began to pound on the floor. He
gave one thrashing, convulsive leap, his entire body bounding up from the floor.
When he came down, he was dead.
Salmissra watched him die, her pale eyes expressionless, incurious, with no hint
of anger or regret.
"Justice is done," the eunuch announced.
"Swift is the justice of the Queen of the Serpent People," the others replied.
Chapter Twenty-eight
THERE WERE OTHER THINGS they made him drink - some bitter, some sickeningly
sweet - and his mind seemed to sink deeper with each cup he raised to his lips.
His eyes began to play strange tricks on him. It seemed somehow that the world
had suddenly been drowned and that all of this was taking place under water. The
walls wavered and the figures of the kneeling eunuchs seemed to sway and
undulate like seaweed in the endless wash and eddy of tide and current. The
lamps sparkled like jewels, casting out brilliant colors in slow-falling
showers. Garion slumped, all bemused, on the dais near Salmissra's divan, his
eyes filled with light and his head washed clean of all thought. There was no
sense of time, no desire, no will. He briefly and rather vaguely remembered his
friends, but the knowledge that he would never see them again brought only a
brief, passing regret, a temporary melancholy that was rather pleasant. He even
shed one crystal tear over his loss, but the tear landed on his wrist and
sparkled with such an unearthly beauty that he lost himself utterly in
contemplating it.
"How did he do it?" the queen's voice said somewhere behind him. Her voice was
so beautifully musical that the sound of it pierced Garion's very soul.
"It has power," Maas replied, his serpent voice thrilling Garion's nerves,
vibrating them like the strings of a lute. "Its power is untried, undirected,
but it is very strong. Beware of this one, beloved Salmissra. It can destroy
quite by accident."
"I will control him," she said.
"Perhaps," the snake replied.
"Sorcery requires will," Salmissra pointed out. "I will take his will away from
him. Your blood is cold, Maas, and you've never felt the fire that fills the
veins with the taste of oret or athal or kaldiss. Your passions are also cold,
and you can't know how much the body can be used to enslave the will. I'll put
his mind to sleep and then smother his will with love."
"Love, Salmissra?" the snake asked, sounding faintly amused.
"The term serves as well as any other," she replied. "Call it appetite, if you
wish."
"That I can understand," Maas agreed. "But don't underestimate this one - or
overestimate your own power. It does not have an ordinary mind. There's
something strange about it that I can't quite penetrate."
"We'll see," she said. "Sadi," she called the eunuch.
"Yes, my Queen?"
"Take the boy. Have him bathed and perfumed. He smells of boats and tar and salt
water. I don't like such Alorn smells."
"At once, Eternal Salmissra."
Garion was led away to a place where there was warm water. His clothes were
taken from him, and he was immersed and soaped and immersed again. Fragrant oils
were rubbed into his skin, and a brief loincloth was tied about his waist. Then
he was taken quite firmly by the chin and rouge was applied to his cheeks. It
was during this process that he realized that the person painting his face was a
woman. Slowly, almost incuriously, he let his eyes move around the bath chamber.
He realized then that except for Sadi, everyone there was female. It seemed that
something about that should bother him - something having to do with appearing
naked in the presence of women - but he could not exactly remember what it was.
When the woman had finished painting his face, Sadi the eunuch took his arm and
led him again through the dim, endless corridors back to the room where
Salmissra half lay on her divan beneath the statue, admiring herself in the
pedestaled mirror beside her.
"Much better," she said, looking Garion up and down with a certain appreciation.
"He's much more muscular than I thought. Bring him here."
Sadi led Garion to the side of the queen's divan and gently pressed him down
onto the cushions where Essia had lounged.
Salmissra reached out with a lingeringly slow hand and brushed her cold
fingertips across his face and chest. Her pale eyes seemed to burn, and her lips
parted slightly. Garion's eyes fixed themselves on her pale arm. There was no
trace of hair on that white skin.
"Smooth," he said vaguely, struggling to focus on that peculiarity.
"Of course, my Belgarion," she murmured. "Serpents are hairless, and I am the
queen of the serpents."
Slowly, puzzled, he raised his eyes to the lustrous black tresses tumbling down
across one of her white shoulders.
"Only this," she said, touching the curls with a sensuous kind of vanity.
"How?" he asked.
"It's a secret." She laughed. "Someday perhaps I'll show you. Would you like
that?"
"I suppose so."
"Tell me, Belgarion," she said, "do you think I'm beautiful?"
"I think so."
"How old would you say I am?" She spread her arms so that he could see her body
through the filmy gauze of her gown.
"I don't know," Garion said. "Older than I am, but not too old." A brief flicker
of annoyance crossed her face. "Guess," she ordered somewhat harshly.
"Thirty perhaps," he decided, confused.
"Thirty?" Her voice was stricken. Swiftly she turned to her mirror and examined
her face minutely. "You're blind, you idiot!" she snapped, still staring at
herself in the glass. "That's not the face of a woman of thirty. Twenty-three twenty-five at the most."
"Whatever you say," he agreed.
"Twenty-three," she stated firmly. "Not a single day over twentythree."
"Of course," he said mildly.
"Would you believe that I'm nearly sixty?" she demanded, her eyes suddenly
flint-hard.
"No," Garion denied. "I couldn't believe that - not sixty."
"What a charming boy you are, Belgarion," she breathed at him, her glance
melting. Her fingers returned to his face, touching, stroking, caressing.
Slowly, beneath the pale skin of her naked shoulder and throat, curious patches
of color began to appear, a faint mottling of green and purple that seemed to
shift and pulsate, growing first quite visible and then fading. Her lips parted
again, and her breathing grew faster. The mottling spread down her torso beneath
her transparent gown, the colors seeming to writhe beneath her skin.
Maas crept nearer, his dead eyes suddenly coming awake with a strange adoration.
The vivid pattern of his own scaly skin so nearly matched the colors that began
to emerge upon the body of the Serpent Queen that when he draped a caressing
coil across one of her shoulders it became impossible to say exactly where lay
the boundary between the snake and the woman.
Had Garion not been in a half stupor, he would have recoiled from the queen. Her
colorless eyes and mottled skin seemed reptilian, and her openly lustful
expression spoke of some dreadful hunger. Yet there was a curious attraction
about her. Helplessly he felt drawn by her blatant sensuality.
"Come closer, my Belgarion," she ordered softly. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Her eyes gloated over her possession of him.
Not far from the dais, Sadi the eunuch cleared his throat. "Divine Queen," he
announced, "the emissary of Taur Urgas requests a word with you."
"Of Ctuchik, you mean," Salmissra said, looking faintly annoyed. Then a thought
seemed to cross her mind, and she smiled maliciously. The mottling of her skin
faded. "Bring the Grolim in," she instructed Sadi.
Sadi bowed and withdrew to return a moment later with a scar-faced man in the
garb of a Murgo.
"Give welcome to the emissary of Taur Urgas," the eunuch chanted. "Welcome," the
chorus replied.
"Carefully now, "the dry voice in his mind said to Garion. "That's the one we
saw at the harbor. "
Garion looked more carefully at the Murgo and realized that it was true.
"Hail, Eternal Salmissra," the Grolim said perfunctorily, bowing first to the
queen and then to the statue behind her. "Taur Urgas, King of Cthol Murgos,
sends greetings to the Spirit of Issa and to his handmaiden."
"And are there no greetings from Ctuchik, High Priest of the Grolims?" she
asked, her eyes bright.
"Of course," the Grolim said, "but those are customarily given in private."
"Is your errand here on behalf of Taur Urgas or of Ctuchik?" she inquired,
turning to examine her reflection in the mirror.
"May we speak in private, your Highness?" the Grolim asked. "We are in private,"
she said.
"But-" He looked around at the kneeling eunuchs in the room.
"My body servants," she said. "A Nyissan queen is never left alone. You should
know that by now."
"And that one?" The Grolim pointed at Garion.
"He is also a servant - but of a slightly different