                               THE BELGARIAD
                                  Part Four

                             CASTLE OF WIZARDRY



For Bibbidie,
and for Chopper Jack
and for Jimmy and Eddie
- close and special friends who have given support
from the start.



PROLOGUE



Being an account of how Riva Iron grip became Guardian of the Orb of Aldur
and of the evil wrought by Nyissa.

                          -Based upon The Book of Alorn and later accounts.

NOW  A TIME came  when Cherek and  his three  sons went with  Belgarath the
Sorcerer into  Mallorea. Together they sought to  reclaim the Orb of Aldur,
which had  been stolen by the  maimed God Torak. And  when they came to the
place  in the  iron  tower of  Torak where  the Orb  was hidden,  only Riva
Iron-grip, youngest  of the sons, dared  seize the great jewel  and bear it
forth.  For   Riva  alone  was  free  of   evil  intent  within  his  soul.

And when they were come again to the West, Belgarath gave unto Riva and his
descendants eternal  guardianship of the  Orb, saying: "So long  as the Orb
rests  with  you  and   your  line,  so  long  shall  the  West  be  safe."

Then Riva took the Orb and sailed with his people to the Isle of the Winds.
There, upon the one place where ships might land, Riva caused to be built a
Citadel  and a  walled  city around  it, which  men  named Riva.  It  was a
fortress city, built for war.

Within the  Citadel was built a  great hall, with a  throne carved of black
rock set against the  wall. And men called this throne room the Hall of the
Rivan King.

Then  a deep  sleep  fell upon  Riva, and  Belar,  Bear-God of  the Alorns,
appeared to  him in a dream,  saying: "Behold, Guardian of  the Orb, I will
cause two stars to  fall from the sky. And thou shalt take up the two stars
and place them in a fire and forge them. One shall thou forge into a blade,
the other into a  hilt, and together they shall be a sword to guard the Orb
of my brother Aldur."

When Riva awoke, he  saw two stars fall and he sought and found them in the
high mountains.  And he did with them as Belar  had instructed. But when it
was  done, the blade  and hilt could  not be  joined. Then Riva  cried out,
"Behold,  I have  marred  the work,  for the  sword  will not  become one."

A fox,  which had sat nearby  to watch him, said to  Riva, "The work is not
marred, Riva.  Take the hilt and place the Orb upon  it as a pommel stone."
And when Riva did  as the fox instructed, the Orb became one with the hilt.
But blade and hilt  were still unjoined. Again the fox counseled him. "Take
the  blade in  your left  hand and the  hilt in  the right and  join them."

"They will not join. It is not possible," Riva said.

"Wise are you, indeed,"  the fox said, "to know what is not possible before
you have made the attempt."

Then Riva was ashamed. He set blade and hilt together, and the blade passed
into the  hilt as a stick slides into water.  The sword was joined forever.

The fox  laughed and said, "Take the sword and  smite the rock which stands
before you."

Riva feared for the blade, lest the blow shatter it, but he smote the rock.
The rock broke in two, and water gushed forth in a river and flowed down to
the city  below. And  far to the  east in the darkness  of Mallorea, maimed
Torak  started  up from  his  bed as  a  chill coursed  through his  heart.

Again the fox laughed. Then it ran away, but stopped to look back. Riva saw
that it  was a fox no longer, but the great  silver wolf form of Belgarath.

Riva had  the sword placed upon the face of the  black rock wall that stood
at the  back of his throne  with its blade downward so  that the Orb at its
pommel  stood at  the highest point.  And the  sword cleaved itself  to the
rock. None but Riva could take it down.

As the years passed, men saw that the Orb burned with a cold fire when Riva
sat upon  the throne;  and when he  took down the  sword and  raised it, it
became a great tongue of blue flame.

In the  early spring of the  year after the sword  was forged, a small boat
came across the dark waters of the Sea of the Winds, moving without oars or
sails. Alone  within the  boat was the  fairest maid in all  the world. Her
name was Beldaran, beloved  daughter of Belgarath, and she had come to be a
wife  to Riva.  And  Riva's heart  melted with  love for  her, as  had been
ordained from the beginning of time.

In the  year that followed the wedding of Beldaran to  Riva, a son was born
to them upon Erastide.  And upon the right hand of this son of Riva was the
mark of the Orb. Straightaway, Riva carried his infant manchild to the Hall
of the Rivan  King and placed the tiny hand upon the  Orb. The Orb knew the
child  and glowed  with  love for  him. Ever  afterward,  the hand  of each
descendant of Riva bore  the mark of the Orb that it might know him and not
destroy him when he touched it, for only one of Riva's line could touch the
Orb in safety. With each touch of infant hand upon the Orb the bond between
Riva's  line  and  the  Orb  grew  stronger.  And with  each  joining,  the
brilliance of the Orb increased.

Thus it  was in the city of Riva for  a thousand years. Sometimes strangers
sailed into the Sea of Winds, seeking trade, but the ships of Cherek, bound
to  defend the  Isle of the  Winds, fell  upon the strangers  and destroyed
them. But in time, the Alorn Kings met and determined in council that these
strangers  were not  the servants of  Torak, but  bowed instead to  the God
Nedra.  Then  they agreed  to  let  the ships  sail  the Sea  of the  Winds
unmolested. "For,"  the Rivan  King told his  fellow monarchs, "a  time may
come when  the sons of Nedra will join with us  in our struggle against the
Angaraks of Torak One-Eye.  Let us not offend Nedra by sinking the ships of
his children." The ruler  of Riva spoke wisely, and the Alorn Kings agreed,
knowing that the world was changing.

Then  treaties were  signed with  the sons  of Nedra;  who took  a childish
delight  in signing  scraps  of parchment.  But when  they sailed  into the
harbor at Riva, with  their ships bearing full loads of gaudy trinkets upon
which they  placed high  value, the Rivan  King laughed at  their folly and
closed the gates of the city to them.

The sons of Nedra importuned their king, whom they called Emperor, to force
the city gates so  that they might hawk their wares in the streets, and the
Emperor sent  his army to the Isle. Now to  permit these strangers from the
kingdom they called Tolnedra passage upon the Sea was one thing, but to let
them land an army at the gates of Riva without challenge was quite another.
The Rivan  King ordered that the strand before the  city be cleared and the
harbor  be  swept  clean  of  the  ships  of  Tolnedra. And  it  was  done.

Great was the wrath  of the Emperor of Tolnedra. He assembled his armies to
cross the  Sea of  the Winds and  do war. Then the  peaceloving Alorns held
council to  try reason upon this rash Emperor. And  they sent out a message
to  advise him  that, should  he persist,  they would  rise up  and destroy
Emperor and  kingdom and sweep the  wreckage thereof into the  sea. And the
Emperor gave  heed to  this quiet remonstrance and  abandoned his desperate
adventure.

As  years passed  and  the Rivan  King realized  that these  merchants from
Tolnedra were harmless, he  allowed them to build a village upon the strand
before his city and there to display their useless goods. Their desperation
to sell or trade came to amuse him, and he asked his people to buy some few
items  from them  - though  no purpose  could be  found for the  goods thus
purchased.

Then, four  thousand and two years from the  day when Accursed Torak raised
the stolen Orb and cracked open the world, other strange people came to the
village which the sons of Nedra had built outside the walls of Riva. And it
was learned  of these  strangers that they  were the sons of  the God Issa.
They called  themselves Ny-Issans, and they claimed  that their ruler was a
woman, which seemed unnatural  to all who heard. The name of this queen was
Salmissra.

They came  in dissembling guise,  saying that they brought  rich gifts from
their  queen for  the Rivan King  and his  family. Hearing this,  Gorek the
Wise, aged  king in  the line of Riva,  grew curious to know  more of these
children of  Issa and  their queen. With  his wife, his two  sons and their
wives, and  all his royal grandchildren, he went  from out the fortress and
the city to visit the pavilion of the Ny-Issans, to greet them courteously,
and to  receive from them the valueless gifts sent  by the harlot of Sthiss
Tor. With  smiles of greeting, the Rivan King  and his family were welcomed
into the pavilion of the strangers.

Then the  foul and accursed sons  of Issa struck at  all who were the fruit
and  the seed  of  the line  of Riva.  And  venom was  anointed  upon their
weapons, so that the merest scratch was death.

Mighty  even in  age,  Gorek struggled  with the  assassins  - not  to save
himself, for he  felt death in his veins from the first  blow - but to save
at least one of  his grandsons that his line might continue. Alas, all were
doomed, save  only one child who  fled and cast himself  into the sea. When
Gorek saw this, he covered his head with his cloak, groaned, and fell dying
beneath the knives of Nyissa.

When  word of  this reached  Brand, Warder  of the  Citadel, his  wrath was
dreadful. The traitorous assassins were overcome, and Brand questioned each
in turn  in ways that made brave men tremble. And  the truth was wrung from
them. Gorek and his  family had been foully murdered at the instructions of
Salmissra, Snake Queen of the Nyissans.

Of the  child who  had cast himself  into the sea  there was  no trace. One
assassin claimed that he had seen a snowy owl swoop down and bear the child
away, but  he was not believed,  though even the severest  urging would not
make him change his story.

Then all Aloria made dreadful war upon the sons of Issa and tore down their
cities and  put all  they could find to  the sword. And in  her final hour,
Salmissra confessed that the evil deed had been done at the urging of Torak
One-Eye and his servant Zedar.

Thus there was no longer a Rivan King and Guardian of the Orb, though Brand
and those  of the same name who followed reluctantly  took up rule of Riva.
Rumor, ever vagrant, persisted  in the years that followed, saying that the
seed of Riva still  lay hidden in some remote land. But gray-cloaked Rivans
scoured the world in search of him and never found him.

The sword remained as  Riva had placed it, and the Orb was still affixed to
its pommel,  though now the jewel  was ever dull and  seeming without life.
And men began to feel that so long as the Orb was there, the West was safe,
even though  there was  no Rivan King.  Nor did there seem  aught of danger
that the  Orb could ever be removed, since any man  who touched it would be
instantly  and utterly  consumed, were he  not truly  of the line  of Riva.

But now  that his  minions had removed  the Rivan King and  Guardian of the
Orb, Torak  One-Eye again dared begin  plans for the conquest  of the West.
And after many years,  he led forth an enormous army of Angaraks to destroy
all  who opposed  him. His  hordes raved  through Algaria and  down through
Arendia, to the city of Vo Mimbre.

Now Belgarath  and his daughter Polgara  the Sorceress came to  the one who
was Brand  and Warder  of Riva to  advise and counsel with  him. With them,
Brand led his army to Vo Mimbre. And in the bloody battle before that city,
Brand drew upon the  power of the Orb to overcome Torak. Zedar spirited the
body of his master  away and hid it, but not all the disciple's skill could
again awaken his God. And again men of the West felt safe, protected by the
Orb and Aldur.

Now there  came rumors  of a prophecy that  a Rivan King, true  seed of the
line of  Riva, should again appear  and sit upon the  throne in the Hall of
the Rivan  King. And in later years, some claimed  that each daughter of an
Emperor of  Tolnedra appeared on her sixteenth birthday  to be the bride of
the new  king, should he appear.  But few regarded such  tales. Time passed
into centuries,  and still the West  was safe. The Orb  remained, quiet and
dark upon the pommel  of the sword. And somewhere fearful Torak was said to
sleep  until the  return  of the  Rivan King  - which  came to  mean never.

And thus the account should be ended. But no true account can ever end. And
nothing can  ever be safe or  sure so long as cunning  men plot to steal or
destroy.

Again,  long centuries  passed.  And then  new  rumors came,  this time  to
disturb those  in the  highest places of  power. And it  was whispered that
somehow the Orb had been stolen. Then Belgarath and Polgara were seen to be
moving through the lands of the West again. This time they took with them a
young  man named  Garion  who named  Belgarath his  grandfather  and called
Polgara his  aunt. And  as they moved  through the kingdoms,  they gathered
upon them a strange company.

To the Alorn Kings  who gathered in council, Belgarath revealed that it was
the  Apostate Zedar  who had somehow  contrived to  steal the Orb  from the
sword and who was  even then fleeing with it to the East, presumably to use
it to  awaken sleeping Torak. And  it was there Belgarath  must go with his
company to rescue it.

Then Belgarath discovered that Zedar had found a boy of total innocence who
could safely  touch the Orb. But now the way led  to the grim and dangerous
headquarters of the Grolim priests of Torak, where the magician Ctuchik had
seined the Orb and the boy from Zedar.

In time  this quest  of Belgarath and  his company to regain  the Orb would
come to be known as the Belgariad. But the end thereof lay entangled within
the Prophecy. And even to the Prophecy was the ultimate conclusion unknown.





                                  Part One

                                  ALGARIA





                                  [Image]





Chapter One

CTUCHIK WAS  DEAD - arid more  than dead - and  the earth itself heaved and
groaned in  the aftershock of  his destruction. Garion and  the others fled
down  through  the  dim  galleries  that  honeycombed  the  swaying  basalt
pinnacle,  with the rocks  grinding and  cracking about them  and fragments
shattering away from the ceilings and raining down on them in the darkness.
Even as he ran, Garion's mind jerked and veered, his thoughts tumbling over
each other  chaotically, stunned  out of all  coherence by the  enormity of
what had  just happened. Flight was  a desperate need, and  he fled without
thought  or  even  awareness,  his  running  steps  as  mechanical  as  his
heartbeat.

His ears  seemed full of a swelling, exultant song  that rang and soaxed in
the  vaults of  his mind,  erasing thought  and filling him  with stupefied
wonder. Through all his confusion, however, he was sharply conscious of the
trusting touch  of the small hand  he held in his.  The little boy they had
found in Ctuchik's grim turret ran beside him with the Orb of Aldur clasped
tightly to  his little chest. Garion  knew that it was  the Orb that filled
his mind  with song. It had whispered to him as  they had mounted the steps
of the turret, and  its song had soared as he had entered the room where it
had lain.  It was the song  of the Orb that  obliterated all thought - more
than  shock or  the thunderous  detonation that  had destroyed  Ctuchik and
tumbled Belgarath across the  floor like a rag doll or the deep sullen boom
of the earthquake that had followed.

Garion struggled  with it  as he ran,  trying desperately to  pull his wits
into  some  kind of  order,  but the  song  intruded on  his every  effort,
scattering his  mind so that chance  impression and random memory fluttered
and  scurried this  way and  that and  left him  to flee without  design or
direction.

The dank reek of  the slave pens lying just beneath the disintegrating city
of Rak  Cthol came  sharply through the  shadowy galleries. As  if suddenly
awakened  by that  single  stimulus, a  flood of  memories of  other smells
crashed in  on Garion's consciousness - the  warm smell of freshbaked bread
in Aunt Pol's kitchen back at Faldor's farm, the salt smell of the sea when
they had reached Darine  on the north coast of Sendaria on the first leg of
their quest for the Orb, the stink of the swamps and jungles of Nyissa, the
stomach-turning smell of the burning bodies of the sacrificed slaves in the
Temple of Torak which  even now shattered and fell in upon itself among the
collapsing walls of Rak  Cthol. But, oddly, the smell that came sharpest to
his confused  memory was the sun-warmed  scent of Princess Ce'Nedra's hair.

"Garion!" Aunt  Pol's voice  came sharply to  him in the  near dark through
which they  ran. "Watch where you're  going!" And he struggled  to pull his
mind back from its wandering even as he stumbled over a pile of broken rock
where   a   large   stretch   of  ceiling   had   fallen   to  the   floor.

The terrified  wails of the  imprisoned slaves locked in  clammy cells rose
all around them now,  joining in a weird counterharmony with the rumble and
boom of  earthquake. Other  sounds came from the  darkness as well-confused
shouts in  harshly accented  Murgo voices, the lurching  stagger of running
feet, the  clanging of an unlatched  iron cell door swinging  wildly as the
huge rock  pinnacle swayed  and shuddered and  heaved in the  surging roll.
Dust billowed through the dark caves, a thick, choking rock dust that stung
their eyes  and made  them all cough  almost continually as  they clambered
over the broken rubble.

Garion carefully lifted the  trusting little boy over the pile of shattered
rock,  and the  child looked into  his face,  calm and smiling  despite the
chaos  of noise  and stink all  around them  in the oppressive  dimness. He
started  to set the  child down again,  but changed  his mind. It  would be
easier and safer to carry the boy. He turned to go on along the passageway,
but he recoiled sharply  as his foot came down on something soft. He peered
at the floor, then felt his stomach suddenly heave with revulsion as he saw
that he had stepped  on a lifeless human hand protruding from the rockfall.

They ran  on through the heaving darkness with  the black Murgo robes which
had disguised  them flapping around their legs and  the dust still thick in
the air about them.

"Stop!"  Relg, the  Ulgo zealot, raised  his hand  and stood with  his head
cocked to one side, listening intently.

"Not  here!"  Barak  told  him,  still  lumbering forward  with  the  dazed
Belgarath in his arms. "Move, Relg!"

"Be still!"  Relg ordered. "I'm trying to listen."  Then he shook his head.
"Go  back!"  he  barked,  turning  quickly  and  pushing  at  them.  "Run!"

"There are Murgos back there!" Barak objected.

"Run!" Relg  repeated. "The side of the  mountain's breaking away!" Even as
they turned,  a new and dreadful  creaking roar surrounded them. Screeching
in protest,  the rock ripped apart  with a long, hideous  tearing. A sudden
flood of  light filled the gallery  along which they fled  as a great crack
opened in the side of the basalt peak, widening ponderously as a vast chunk
of  the mountainside  toppled slowly outward  to fall  to the floor  of the
wasteland thousands  of feet below. The  red glow of the  new-risen sun was
blinding as the dark world of the caves was violently opened, and the great
wound in  the side of the peak revealed a dozen  or more dark openings both
above  and  beneath,  where   caves  suddenly  ran  out  into  nothingness.

"There!" a shout came from overhead. Garion jerked his head around. Perhaps
fifty feet  above and out along  the sharp angle of  the face, a half dozen
black-robed  Murgos, swords  drawn,  stood in  a cave  mouth with  the dust
billowing about them. One  was pointing excitedly at the fleeing fugitives.
And  then the  peak heaved again,  and another  great slab of  rock sheared
away,   carrying   the   shrieking   Murgos   into   the   abyss   beneath.

"Run!" Relg  shouted again, and they  all pounded along at  his heels, back
into the darkness of the shuddering passageway.

"Stop  a minute,"  Barak gasped, plowing  to a  sudden halt after  they had
retreated  several  hundred  yards.  "Let me  get  my  breath." He  lowered
Belgarath to the floor, his huge chest heaving.

"Can I help thee, my Lord?" Mandorallen offered quickly.

"No," Barak panted. "I can manage all right, I'm just a little winded." The
big man  peered around. "What happened back there?  What set all this off?"

"Belgarath and  Ctuchik had  a bit of  a disagreement," Silk  told him with
sardonic  understatement. "It  got a  little out  of hand toward  the end."

"What  happened to  Ctuchik?"  Barak asked,  still gasping  for  breath. "I
didn't  see anybody  else  when Mandorallen  and I  broke into  that room."

"He destroyed  himself," Polgara  replied, kneeling to  examine Belgarath's
face.

"We saw  no body,  my Lady," Mandorallen  noted, peering into  the darkness
with his great broadsword in his hand.

"There wasn't that much left of him," Silk said.

"Are we safe here?" Polgara asked Relg.

The  Ulgo set  the side  of his  head against  the wall of  the passageway,
listening intently.  Then he  nodded. "For the moment,"  he replied. "Let's
stop here  for a while then.  I want to have  a look at my  father. Make me
some light."

Relg fumbled  in the pouches at his belt and  mixed the two substances that
gave off that faint Ulgo light.

Silk  looked curiously at  Polgara. "What  really happened?" he  asked her.
"Did Belgarath do that to Ctuchik?"

She shook her head, her hands lightly touching her father's chest. "Ctuchik
tried to unmake the  Orb for some reason," she said. "Something happened to
frighten him so much that he forgot the first rule."

A momentary flicker of  memory came to Garion as he set the little boy down
on his  feet - that brief glimpse of Ctuchik's  mind just before the Grolim
had spoken the fatal  "Be Not" that had exploded him into nothingness. Once
again he caught that  single image that had risen in the High Priest's mind
- the image of himself holding the Orb in his hand - and he felt the blind,
unreasoning panic  the image had  caused Ctuchik. Why? Why  would that have
frightened the Grolim into that deadly mistake?

"What happened to him, Aunt Pol?" he asked. For some reason he had to know.

"He no longer exists,"  she replied. "Even the substance that formed him is
gone."

"That's not what I  meant," Garion started to object, but Barak was already
speaking.

"Did he destroy the Orb?" the big man asked with a kind of weak sickness in
his voice.

"Nothing can destroy the Orb," she told him calmly.

"Where is it then?"

The little  boy pulled his hand free from  Garion's and went confidently to
the big  Cherek. "Errand?" he asked,  holding out the round,  gray stone in
his hand.

Barak recoiled  from the offered stone.  "Belay!" he swore, quickly putting
his  hands behind  his back.  "Make him  stop waving  it around  like that,
Polgara. Doesn't he know how dangerous it is?"

"I doubt it."

"How's Belgarath?" Silk asked.

"His heart's  still strong," Polgara replied.  "He's exhausted, though. The
fight nearly killed him."

With a  long, echoing shudder the quaking  subsided, and the silence seemed
very loud.

"Is it over?" Durnik asked, looking around nervously.

"Probably not,"  Relg replied,  his voice hushed  in the sudden  quiet. "An
earthquake usually goes on for quite some time."

Barak was peering curiously at the little boy. "Where did he come from?" he
asked, his rumbling voice also subdued.

"He  was in  the turret with  Ctuchik," Polgara  told him. "He's  the child
Zedar raised to steal the Orb."

"He doesn't look all that much like a thief."

"He  isn't  precisely."  She  looked  gravely  at  the  blond-headed  waif.
"Somebody's going  to have to keep  an eye on him,"  she observed. "There's
something very  peculiar about him. After  we get down, I'll  look into it,
but   I've  got   too  much   on  my   mind  for   that  at   the  moment."

"Could  it be  the  Orb?" Silk  asked curiously.  "I've  heard that  it has
strange effects on people."

"Perhaps that's  it." But she  didn't sound very convinced.  "Keep him with
you, Garion, and don't let him lose the Orb."

"Why  me?"  He  said  it without  thinking.  She  gave  him  a level  gaze.

"All  right, Aunt Pol."  He knew there  was no  point in arguing  with her.

"What was  that?" Barak asked,  holding up his hand  for silence. Somewhere
off  in the  darkness  there was  the murmur  of  voices -  harsh, guttural
voices.

"Murgos!" Silk whispered sharply, his hand going to his dagger.

"How many?" Barak asked Aunt Pol.

"Five," she replied. "No-six. One's lagging behind."

"Are any of them Grolims?"

She shook her head.

"Let's go, Mandorallen," the big Cherek muttered, grimly drawing his sword.

The knight  nodded, shifting his own broadsword  in his hands. "Wait here,"
Barak whispered  to the rest of  them. "We shouldn't be  long." And then he
and  Mandorallen  moved off  into  the  darkness, their  black Murgo  robes
blending into the shadows.

The others waited, their ears straining to catch any sound. Once again that
strange  song began  to intrude  itself upon  Garion's awareness,  and once
again  his  thoughts scattered  before  its compulsion.  Somewhere a  long,
hissing slither  of dislodged pebbles rattled down  a slope, and that sound
raised a  confused welter of memory  in him. He seemed  to hear the ring of
Durnik's hammer  on the anvil at Faldor's farm,  and then the plodding step
of the horses and the creak of the wagons in which they had carried turnips
to Darine back when  this had all begun. As clearly as if he were there, he
heard again the squealing rush of the boar he had killed in the snowy woods
outside Val Alorn, and then the aching song of the Arendish serfboy's flute
that had  soared to the sky  from the stump-dotted field  where Asharak the
Murgo   had   watched   with   hate  and   fear   on   his  scarred   face.

Garion shook his head,  trying to clear his thoughts, but the song drew him
back  into  that bemused  reverie.  Sharply,  he heard  the awful,  hissing
crackle of  Asharak burning beneath the vast, ancient  trees in the Wood of
the  Dryads and heard  the Grolim's  desperate plea, "Master,  have mercy."
Then  there were the  screams in  Salmissra's palace as  Barak, transformed
into that dreadful bear  shape, clawed and ripped his way toward the throne
room with Aunt Pol in her icy fury striding at his side.

And then the voice  that had always been in his mind was there again. "Stop
fighting with it."

"What is it?" Garion demanded, trying to focus his thoughts.

"It's the Orb."

"What's it doing?"

"It wants to know you. This is its way of finding things out."

"Can't it wait? We don't really have time just now "

"You can try to explain that, if you'd like." The voice sounded amused. "It
might listen,  but I  doubt it. It's been  waiting for you for  a very long
time. "

"Why me?"

"Don't you ever get tired of saying that?"

"Is it doing the same thing to the others?"

"To  a lesser degree.  You might as  well relax.  One way or  another, it's
going to get what it wants. "

There was  a sudden ring of  steel against steel somewhere  off in the dark
passageways and a startled  cry. Then Garion heard the crunch of blows, and
someone groaned. After that, there was silence.

A  few moments  later  they heard  the scuff  of  footsteps, and  Barak and
Mandorallen  returned. "We  couldn't  find that  one who  was  coming along
behind the  rest of them," Barak reported.  "Is Belgarath showing any signs
of coming around yet?"

Polgara shook her head. "He's still completely dazed," she replied.

"I'll carry him then.  We'd better go. It's a long way back down, and these
caves are going to be full of Murgos before long."

"In a moment," she said. "Relg, do you know where we are?"

"Roughly."

"Take us  back to the place where we left  the slave woman," she instructed
in a tone that tolerated no objection.

Relg's face went hard, but he said nothing.

Barak bent  and picked  up the unconscious  Belgarath. Garion held  out his
arms,  and  the little  boy  obediently came  to  him, the  Orb still  held
protectively  against his  chest.  The child  seemed peculiarly  light, and
Garion carried  him with almost no effort.  Relg lifted his faintly glowing
wooden bowl to illuminate their path, and they started out again, twisting,
turning, following  a zigzag  course that went  deeper and deeper  into the
gloomy caves.  The darkness of the  peak above them seemed  to bear down on
Garion's shoulders with a greater and greater weight the farther they went.
The song  in his mind swelled again, and the  faint light Relg carried sent
his thoughts  roving once more. Now that  he understood what was happening,
it seemed to go  more easily. The song opened his mind, and the Orb leeched
out  every thought  and  memory, passing  through  his life  with a  light,
flickering touch.  It had a peculiar kind  of curiosity, lingering often on
things Garion  did not  think were all  that important and  barely touching
matters that  had seemed  so dreadfully urgent  when they had  occurred. It
traced out in detail  each step they had taken in their long journey to Rak
Cthol. It  passed with them to  the crystal chamber in  the mountains above
Maragor where Garion had  touched the stillborn colt and given life in that
oddly necessary  act of atonement that had somehow  made up for the burning
of Asharak.  It went down with  them into the Vale  where Garion had turned
over the  large white rock in  his first conscious attempt  to use the Will
and the Word objectively.  It scarcely noticed the dreadful fight with Grul
the Eldrak nor  the visit to the caves of Ulgo, but  seemed to have a great
curiosity  about the  shield  of imagining  which Garion  and Aunt  Pol had
erected to conceal their  movements from the searching minds of the Grolims
as they  had approached  Rak Cthol. It  ignored the death of  Brill and the
sickening ceremonies  in the Temple  of Torak, but lingered  instead on the
conversation  between Belgarath  and  Ctuchik in  the Grolim  High Priest's
hanging turret.  And then,  most peculiarly, it  went back to  sift through
every one  of Garion's memories of  Princess Ce'Nedra - of  the way the sun
caught her coppery hair, of the lithe grace of her movements, of her scent,
of each unconscious gesture,  of the flicker and play of emotion across her
tiny, exquisite  face. It lingered on  her in a way  that Garion eventually
found unsettling. At the same time he found himself a bit surprised that so
much of  what the  princess had said  and done had  stuck so  firmly in his
memory.

"Garion," Aunt  Pol said, "what is the matter with you?  I told you to hold
onto  the  child. Pay  attention.  This  isn't the  time for  daydreaming."

"I wasn't. I was-" How could he explain it?

"You were what?"

"Nothing."  They moved  on, and  there were  periodic tremors as  the earth
settled uneasily. The huge basalt pinnacle swayed and groaned each time the
earth shuddered and convulsed  under its base; and at each new quiver, they
stopped, almost fearing to breathe.

"How  far  down  have  we  come?"  Silk asked,  looking  around  nervously.

"A thousand feet perhaps," Relg replied.

"That's all? We'll be penned up in here for a week at this rate."

Relg shrugged  his heavy shoulders. "It will take as  long as it takes," he
said in his harsh voice as they moved on.

There were  Murgos in the next  gallery, and another nasty  little fight in
the darkness. Mandorallen was limping when he came back,

"Why  didn't you wait  for me as  I told  you to?" Barak  demanded crossly.

Mandorallen shrugged. "They were but three, my Lord."

"There's just  no point in trying to talk to you,  do you know that?" Barak
sounded disgusted.

"Are you all right?" Polgara asked the knight.

"A mere scratch, my  Lady," Mandorallen replied indifferently. "It is of no
moment."

The rock  floor of the gallery shuddered and  heaved again, and the booming
noise echoed  up through the caves.  They all stood frozen,  but the uneasy
movement of the earth subsided after a few moments.

They  moved  steadily  downward  through  the passageways  and  caves.  The
aftershocks  of  the  earthquake  that had  shattered  Rak  Cthol and  sent
Ctuchik's turret crashing to the floor of the wasteland of Murgos continued
at  intervals. At  one point,  hours later  it seemed,  a party  of Murgos,
perhaps  a dozen  strong,  passed through  a gallery  not far  ahead, their
torches  casting flickering  shadows on  the walls  and their  harsh voices
echoing.  After a  brief, whispered  conference, Barak and  Mandorallen let
them go  by unmolested and unaware  of the ternble violence  lurking in the
shadows  not  twenty yards  away.  After  they were  out  of earshot,  Relg
uncovered his  light again and selected  yet another passageway. They moved
on,  descending,  twisting, zigzagging  their  way down  through the  caves
toward the  foot of  the pinnacle and  the dubious safety  of the wasteland
which lay outside.

While the song of  the Orb did not diminish in any way, Garion was at least
able to  think as he followed Silk along  the twisting passageways with the
little boy in his arms. He thought that perhaps it was because he had grown
at  least  partially  accustomed  to  it  -  or  maybe  its  attention  was
concentrated on one of the others.

They had done it;  that was the amazing thing. Despite all the odds against
them,  they  had  retrieved  the  Orb.  The  search that  had  so  abruptly
interrupted his  quiet life at Faldor's  farm was over, but  it had changed
him in  so many  ways that the  boy who had  crept out through  the gate at
Faldor's  farm in  the middle of  a windswept  autumn night no  longer even
existed. Garion could feel  the power he had discovered within himself even
now and  he knew  that power was there  for a reason. There  had been hints
along  the way  - vague,  half spoken,  sometimes only  implied -  that the
return of  the Orb  to its proper  place was only a  beginning of something
much larger and much  more serious. Garion was absolutely certain that this
was not the end of it.

"It's about time,"the dry voice in his mind said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why do I have to explain this every single time?"

"Explain what?"

"That  I know  what  you're thinking.  It's not  as  if we  were completely
separate, you know."

"All right, then. Where do we go from here?"

"To Riva."

"And after that?"

"We'll see."

"You aren't going to tell me?"

"No. Not yet. You haven't come nearly as far as you think you have. There's
still a very long way to go. "

"If  you aren't  going to  tell me  anything, why  don't you just  leave me
alone?"

"I just wanted to  advise you not to make any long-term plans. The recovery
of the  Orb was  only a step  - an important  one - but  only a beginning."

And  then,  as if  mention  of  it somehow  reminded  the  Orb of  Garion's
presence,  its  song returned  in  full force,  and Garion's  concentration
dissolved.

Not   much   later,  Relg   stopped,   lifting  the   faint  light   aloft.

"What's  the  trouble?" Barak  demanded,  lowering Belgarath  to the  floor
again.

"'The ceiling  fell in," Relg  replied, pointing at the  rubble choking the
passageway  ahead. "We  can't  get through."  He looked  at Aunt  Pol. "I'm
sorry," he  said, and Garion felt  that he really meant  it. "That woman we
left down here is on the other side of the cave-in."

"Find another way," she told him shortly.

"There isn't any. This was the only passageway leading to the pool where we
found her."

"We'll have to clear it then."

Relg shook his head gravely. "We'd just bring more of it down on top of us.
It probably fell in on her as well - at least we can hope so."

"Isn't  that  just  a   bit  contemptible,  Relg?"  Silk  asked  pointedly.

The  Ulgo  turned to  regard  the  little man.  "She  has  water there  and
sufficient air  to breathe. If the cave-in didn't  kill her, she could live
for weeks before she  starves to death." There was a peculiar, quiet regret
in Relg's voice.

Silk  stared  at him  for  a moment.  "Sorry,  Relg," he  said finally.  "I
misunderstood."

"People who live in  caves have no desire to see anyone trapped like that."

Polgara, however,  was considering the rubble-blocked  passageway. "We have
to get her out of there," she declared.

"Relg could be right, you know," Barak pointed out. "For all we know, she's
buried under half the mountain."

She shook her head. "No," she disagreed. "Taiba's still alive, and we can't
leave without her. She's as important to all of this as any one of us." She
turned  back to Relg.  "You'll have to  go get  her," she told  him firmly.

Relg's large, dark eyes widened.

"You can't ask that," he protested.

"There's no alternative."

"You can  do it, Relg," Durnik  encouraged the zealot. "You  can go through
the rock  and bring her out  the same way you carried  Silk out of that pit
where Taur Urgas had him."

Relg had begun to  tremble violently. "I can't!" his voice was choked. "I'd
have to touch her - put my hands on her. It's sin."

"This is most uncharitable  of thee, Relg," Mandorallen told him. "There is
no  sin in  giving  aid to  the weak  and  helpless. Consideration  for the
unfortunate is  a paramount responsibility of all  decent men, and no force
in all  the world can corrupt the pure spirit.  If compassion doth not move
thee to  fly to her aid,  then mayest thou not  perhaps regard her rescue a
test of thy purity?"

"You don't understand," Relg told him in an anguished voice. He turned back
to Polgara. "Don't make me do this, I beg you."

"You must,"  she replied  quietly. "I'm sorry,  Relg, but there's  no other
way."

A dozen  emotions played across the fanatic's face  as he shrank under Aunt
Pol's unrelenting  gaze. Then with a  strangled cry, he turned  and put his
hand to  the solid rockface at the side of  the passageway. With a dreadful
concentration, he pushed his fingers into the rock, demonstrating once more
his uncanny ability to slip his very substance through seemingly unyielding
stone.

Silk quickly turned his back. "I can't stand to watch that," the little man
choked. And then Relg was gone, submerged in the rock.

"Why  does he  make so  much fuss  about touching people?"  Barak demanded.

But  Garion knew why.  His enforced  companionship with the  ranting zealot
during  the ride  across Algaria  had given  him a  sharp insight  into the
workings  of Relg's  mind. The  harsh-voiced denunciations  of the  sins of
others served primarily to conceal Relg's own weakness. Garion had listened
for  hours at  a time  to hysterical  and sometimes  incoherent confessions
about  the lustful thoughts  that raged  through the fanatic's  mind almost
continually. Taiba, the lush-bodied  Marag slave woman, would represent for
Relg the ultimate temptation, and he would fear her more than death itself.

In silence they waited. Somewhere a slow drip of water measured the passing
seconds. The earth shuddered from time to time as the last uneasy shocks of
earthquake trembled  beneath their feet. The minutes  dragged on in the dim
cavern.

And then  there was a flicker  of movement, and Relg  emerged from the rock
wall carrying the half naked Taiba. Her arms were desperately clasped about
his neck,  and her face was  buried in his shoulder.  She was whimpering in
tenor and trembling uncontrollably.

Relg's face  was twisted  into an agony.  Tears of anguish  streamed openly
from his  eyes, and his  teeth were clenched as  if he were in  the grip of
intolerable  pain.  His arms,  however,  cradled the  ternfied slave  woman
protectively, almost  gently, and even when they were  free of the rock, he
held her  closely against him as  if he intended to  hold her thus forever.





Chapter Two

IT WAS NOON  by the time they reached the foot of  the basalt tower and the
large cave  where they had left the horses. Silk went  to the cave mouth to
stand  watch  as Barak  carefully  lowered  Belgarath to  the floor.  "He's
heavier  than he  looks," the big  man grunted,  wiping the sweat  from his
face. "Shouldn't he be starting to come around?"

"It may be days  before he's fully conscious," Polgara replied. "Just cover
him and let him sleep."

"How's he going to ride?"

"I'll take care of that."

"Nobody's going to be riding anywhere for a while," Silk announced from the
narrow mouth  of the cave. "The  Murgos are swarming around  out there like
hornets."

"We'll wait  until dark," Polgara decided. "We  all need some rest anyway."
She pushed  back the hood  of her Murgo robe  and went to one  of the packs
they  had piled  against  the cave  wall when  they  had entered  the night
before. "I'll  see about  something to eat,  then you'd all  better sleep."

Taiba,  the slave  woman, wrapped  once again  in Garion's cloak,  had been
watching  Relg  almost  continually. Her  large,  violet  eyes glowed  with
gratitude mingled with a faint puzzlement. "You saved my life," she said to
him in a rich,  throaty voice. She leaned slightly toward him as she spoke.
It was  an unconscious gesture,  Garion was certain, but  it was distinctly
noticeable. "Thank you," she  added, her hand moving to rest lightly on the
zealot's arm.

Relg cringed back from  her. "Don't touch me," he gasped. She stared at him
in amazement, her hand  still half extended. "You must never put your hands
on me,"  he told her. "Never."  Taiba's look was incredulous.  Her life had
been spent  almost entirely in darkness, and she  had never learned to keep
her emotions  from showing on her face.  Amazement gave way to humiliation,
and her  expression settled then into  a kind of stiff,  sullen pout as she
turned quickly away from  the man who had just so harshly rejected her. The
cloak slipped  from her shoulders as  she turned, and the  few rags she had
for clothing scarcely concealed her nakedness. Despite her tangled hair and
the dirty  smudges on her limbs, there was  a lush, inviting ripeness about
her. Relg  stared at her and  he began to tremble.  Then he quickly turned,
moved as  far away from her as possible, and  dropped to his knees, praying
desperately  and pressing  his face  against the  rocky floor of  the cave.

"Is he all right?" Taiba asked quickly.

"He's got some problems," Barak replied. "You'll get used to it."

"Taiba,"  Polgara said.  "Come  over here."  She looked  critically  at the
woman's scanty clothing. "We're going to have to get something together for
you  to wear.  It's  very cold  outside. There  are  other reasons  too, it
appears."

"I'll  see what  I  can find  in the  packs,"  Durnik offered.  "we'll need
something for the boy  too, I think. That smock of his doesn't look any too
warm." He looked over at the child, who was curiously examining the horses.

"You won't need to  bother about me," Taiba told them. "There's nothing out
there  for  me.  As soon  as  you  leave, I'm  going  back  to Rak  Cthol."

"What are you talking about?" Polgara asked her sharply.

"I still  have something to settle  with Ctuchik," Taiba replied, fingering
her rusty knife.

Silk  laughed from  the  cave mouth.  "We took  care of  that for  you. Rak
Cthol's falling to pieces  up there, and there isn't enough left of Ctuchik
to make a smudge on the floor."

"Dead?" she gasped. "How?"

"You wouldn't believe it," Silk told her.

"Did he suffer?" She said it with a ternble eagerness.

"More than you could ever imagine," Polgara replied.

Taiba drew  in a long, shuddering  breath, and then she  began to cry. Aunt
Pol opened  her arms and took  the sobbing woman into  them, comforting her
even  as   she  had   comforted  Garion  so   often  when  he   was  small.

Garion sank  wearily to the floor, resting his  back against the rocky wall
of the  cave. Waves  of exhaustion washed  over him, and  a great lassitude
drained him of all consciously directed thought. Once again the Orb sang to
him, but lulling now. Its curiosity about him apparently was satisfied, and
its  song seemed  to be there  only to  maintain the contact  between them.
Garion  was too  tired even  to be  curious about  why the stone  took such
pleasure in his company.

The little  boy turned from his curious examination  of the horses and went
to  where Taiba sat  with one of  Aunt Pol's  arms about her  shoulders. He
looked puzzled,  and reached out with one hand to  touch his fingers to her
tear-streaked face.

"What does he want?" Taiba asked.

"He's   probably   never   seen    tears   before,"   Aunt   Pol   replied.

Taiba  stared at  the child's  serious little  face, then  suddenly laughed
through her tears and gave him a quick embrace.

The  little boy  smiled  then. "Errand?"  he asked,  offering her  the Orb.
"Don't take  it, Taiba," Polgara  told her very quietly.  "Don't even touch
it."

Taiba looked at the smiling child and shook her head.

The little  boy sighed, then came across the  cave, sat down beside Garion,
and nestled against him.

Barak had  gone a short distance back up  the passageway they had followed;
now he returned, his face grim. "I can hear Murgos moving around up there,"
the big  man reported. "You can't  tell how far away  they are with all the
echoes in these caves, but it sounds as if they're exploring every cave and
passageway."

"Let us  find some defensible spot  then, my Lord, and  give them reason to
look for us elsewhere," Mandorallen suggested gaily.

"Interesting  notion," Barak  replied,  "but I'm  afraid it  wouldn't work.
Sooner or later they're going to find us."

"I'll take  care of  it," Relg said  quietly, breaking off  his praying and
getting to  his feet. The ritual formulas had not  helped him, and his eyes
were haunted.

"I'll go with you," Barak offered.

Relg shook  his head. "You'd just  be in my way,"  he said shortly, already
moving toward the passage leading back into the mountain. "What's come over
him?" Barak asked, puzzled.

"I think  our friend's having  a religious crisis," Silk  observed from the
mouth of the cave where he kept watch.

"Another one?"

"It gives him something to occupy his spare moments," Silk replied lightly.

"Come and  eat," Aunt Pol told  them, laying slices of  bread and cheese on
top of  one of the packs.  "Then I want to  have a look at  the cut on your
leg, Mandorallen."

After  they had  eaten  and Polgara  had bandaged  Mandorallen's  knee, she
dressed Taiba in a peculiar assortment of clothes Durnik had taken from the
packs. Then  she turned  her attention to  the little boy.  He returned her
grave look with one just as serious, then reached out and touched the white
lock at her brow  with curious fingers. With a start of remembrance, Garion
recalled how many times he had touched that lock with the selfsame gesture,
and the memory of it raised a momentary irrational surge of jealousy, which
he quickly suppressed.

The  little  boy smiled  with  sudden  delight. "Errand,"  he said  firmly,
offering the Orb to Aunt Pol.

She  shook her head.  "No, child," she  told him.  "I'm afraid I'm  not the
one." She  dressed him  in clothing that had  to be rolled up  and taken in
with bits  of twine in various places, then sat  down with her back against
the wall  of the cave and  held out her arms  to him. Obediently he climbed
into her  lap, put one arm  about her neck and  kissed her. Then he nestled
his face  down against her, sighed and  immediately fell asleep. She looked
down at  him with a strange expression on her face  - a peculiar mixture of
wonder and  tenderness - and  Garion fought down another  wave of jealousy.

There was a grinding rumble in the caves above them.

"What's that?" Durnik asked, looking around with apprehension.

"Relg, I'd  imagine," Silk told him.  "He seems to be  taking steps to head
off the Murgos."

"I hope  he doesn't get carried away," Durnik  said nervously, gland ing at
the rock ceiling.

"How  longs   it  going  to  take  to  get   to  the  Vale?"  Barak  asked.

"A couple  of weeks, probably," Silk  replied. "A lot's going  to depend on
the terrain and how quickly the Grolims can organize a search for us. If we
can get enough  of a headstart to put down a good  false trail, we can send
them all  running off to the  west toward the Tolnedran  border, and we can
move toward  the Vale  without needing to  waste all that  time dodging and
hiding." The  little man grinned. "The notion  of deceiving the whole Murgo
nation appeals to me," he added.

"You don't have to get too creative," Barak told him. "Hettar's going to be
waiting for us in  the Vale - along with King Cho-Hag and half the clans of
Algaria. They'll be awfully  disappointed if we don't bring them at least a
few Murgos."

"Life's full of little  disappointments," Silk told him sardonically. "As I
remember it, the eastern  edge of the Vale is very steep and rough. It will
take a  couple of days  at least to make  it down, and I  don't think we'll
want   to  try   it  with   all  of   Murgodom  snapping  at   our  heels."

It  was  midafternoon when  Relg  returned.  His exertions  seemed to  have
quieted some of the turmoil in his mind, but there was still a haunted look
in  his eyes,  and  he deliberately  avoided Taiba's  violet-eyed  gaze. "I
pulled down  the ceilings  of all the  galleries leading to  this cave," he
reported shortly. "We're safe now."

Polgara, who had seemed  asleep, opened her eyes. "Get some rest," she told
him.

He nodded and went immediately to his blankets.

They rested  in the cave through the remainder of  the day, taking turns on
watch at  the narrow opening. The wasteland  of black sand and wind-scoured
rock lying  out beyond  the tumbled scree  at the base of  the pinnacle was
alive  with Murgo  horsemen  scurrying this  way  and that  in a  frenzied,
disorganized search.

"They don't  seem to know  what they're doing," Garion  observed quietly to
Silk as  the two of them  watched. The sun was just  sinking into a bank of
cloud on  the western  horizon, staining the  sky fiery red,  and the stiff
wind  brought a dusty  chill with it  as it  seeped into the  cave opening.

"I imagine that things  are a bit scrambled up in Rak Cthol," Silk replied.
"No one's in charge any more, and that confuses Murgos. They tend to go all
to   pieces   when   there's   nobody   around  to   give   them   orders."

"Isn't that going to make it hard for us to get out of here?" Garion asked.
"What  I mean  is  that they're  not going  anyplace. They're  just milling
around. How are we going to get through them?"

Silk shrugged. "We'll just  pull up our hoods and mill around with the rest
of them." He pulled the coarse cloth of the Murgo robe he wore closer about
him to ward off the chill and turned to look back into the cave. "The sun's
going down," he reported.

"Let's wait until it's completely dark," Polgara replied. She was carefully
bundling   the   little   boy   up  in   one   of   Garion's  old   tunics.

"Once we get out a ways, I'll drop a few odds and ends," Silk said. "Murgos
can  be a little  dense sometimes, and  we wouldn't  want them to  miss our
trail." He turned to  look back out at the sunset. "It's going to be a cold
night," he remarked to no one in particular.

"Garion," Aunt Pol said,  rising to her feet, "you and Durnik stay close to
Taiba. She's  never ridden before, and she might  need some help at first."

"What about the little boy?" Dumik asked.

"He'll ride with me."

"And Belgarath?" Mandorallen inquired,  glancing over at the stilh sleeping
old sorcerer.

"When the time comes, we'll just put him on his horse," Polgara replied. "I
can keep him in his saddle - as long as we don't make any sudden changes in
direction. Is it getting any darker?"

"We'd better wait for a little longer," Silk answered. "There's still quite
a bit of light out there."

They waited. The evening sky began to turn purple, and the first stars came
out, glittering  cold and very far away. Torches  began to appear among the
searching  Murgos.  "Shall we  go?"  Silk  suggested, rising  to his  feet.

They led their horses  quietly out of the cave and down across the scree to
the sand.  There they stopped for  several moments while a  group of Murgos
carrying  torches  galloped  by  several  hundred  yards  out.  "Don't  get
separated," Silk told them as they mounted.

"How far  is it to the edge of the wasteland?"  Barak asked the little man,
grunting as he climbed up onto his horse.

"Two  days' hard  riding,"  Silk replied.  "Or nights  in this  case. We'll
probably want to take cover when the sun's out. We don't look all that much
like Murgos."

"Let's get started," Polgara told him.

They  moved out at  a walk, going  slowly until  Taiba became more  sure of
herself and  Belgarath showed that he could stay  in his saddle even though
he could  not yet  communicate with anyone.  Then they nudged  their horses
into a  canter that covered a  great deal of ground  without exhausting the
horses.

As they  crossed the first ridge, they rode directly  into a large group of
Murgos carrying torches.

"Who's   there?"  Silk   demanded  sharply,   his  voice  harsh   with  the
characteristic   accents    of   Murgo   speech.   "Identify   yourselves."

"We're from Rak Cthol," one of the Murgos answered respectfully.

"I know that, blockhead," Silk barked. "I asked your identity."

"Third Phalanx," the Murgo said stiffly.

"That's better.  Put out those torches.  How do you expect  to see anything
beyond ten feet with them flaring in your eyes?"

The torches were immediately extinguished.

"Move 'your  search to  the north," Silk  commanded. "The Ninth  Phalanx is
covering this sector."

"But "

"Are you going to argue with me`?"

"No, but "

"Move! Now!"

The Murgos  wheeled their horses about and  galloped off into the darkness.

"Clever," Barak said admiringly.

Silk shrugged. "Pretty elementary,"  he replied. "People are grateful for a
bit  of  direction when  they're  confused.  Let's move  along, shall  we?"

There were  other encounters during the long,  cold, moonless night as they
rode west.  They were inescapable in view of  the hordes of Murgos scouring
the  wasteland  in search  of  them,  but Silk  handled  each such  meeting
smoothly,   and   the    night   passed   without   significant   incident.

Toward morning  the little man began  artfully dropping various articles to
mark their trail. "A bit overdone, perhaps," he said critically, looking at
an  old shoe he  had just tossed  into the  hoof churned sand  behind them.

"What are you mumbling about?" Barak asked him.

"Our trail,"  Silk replied. "We  want them to follow  us, remember? They're
supposed to think we're headed toward Tolnedra."

"So?"

"I was just suggesting that this is a bit crude."

"You worry too much about things like that."

"It's a  question of style,  my dear Barak," Silk  replied loftily. "Sloppy
work tends to be habit-forming."

As the first steel-gray light of dawn began to creep across the wintry sky,
they took  shelter among the boulders  of one of the  ridges that laced the
floor of the wasteland.  Durnik, Barak and Mandorallen stretched the canvas
of their  tents tautly over a  narrow ravine on the  west side of the ridge
and  sprinkled sand  on  top of  it  to disguise  their makeshift  shelter.

"It's probably  best not to build  a fire," Durnik said  to Polgara as they
led their horses in under the canvas, "what with the smoke and all."

She nodded  her agreement. "We could all use a hot  meal," she said, "but I
suppose we'll have to wait."

They  ate a  cold breakfast  of bread  and cheese  and began to  settle in,
hoping to sleep out the day so that they could ride on the next night.

"I could definitely use  a bath," Silk said, brushing sand out of his hair.

The little  boy looked at nim,  frowning slightly. Then he  walked over and
offered him the Orb. 'Errand'" he asked.

Silk carefully  put his hands behind his back and  shook his head. "Is that
the only word he knows?" he asked Polgara.

"It seems to be," she replied.

"I don't  quite get the connection,"  Silk said. "What does  he mean by it.

"He's probably been told  that he has an errand to run," she explained, "to
steal the  Orb. I imagine that Zedar's been telling  him that over and over
since he was a baby, and the word stuck in his mind."

"It's a  bit disconcerting."  Silk was still  holding his hands  behind his
back. "It seems oddly appropriate sometimes."

"He doesn't appear to think the way we do," she told him. "The only purpose
he has in life  is to give the Orb to someone - anyone, it would seem." She
frowned thoughtfully.  "Durnik, why don't you see if  you can make him some
kind of pouch to carry it in, and we'll fasten it to his waist. Maybe if he
doesn't have it right  there in his hand all the time, he won't think about
it so much."

"Of course,  Mistress Pol," Durnik  agreed. "I should have  thought of that
myself."  He went  to one  of the  packs and  took out an  old, burnscarred
leather apron  and fashioned a pouch out of a wide  piece of leather he cut
from   it.   "Boy,"  he   said   when   he  had   finished,  "come   here."

The little boy was  curiously examining a small, very dry bush at the upper
end of the ravine and gave no indication that he knew the smith was calling
him.

"You-Errand!" Durnik said.

The  little boy  looked around  quickly and  smiled as  he went  to Durnik.

"Why did you call him that?" Silk asked curiously.

Durnik shrugged. "He seems  to be fond of the word and he answers to it. It
will do  for a name until we can find  something more suitable, I suppose."

"Errand?" the child asked, offering the Orb to Durnik.

Durnik smiled at him,  bent over and held the mouth of the pouch open. "Put
it in here, Errand,"  he instructed, "and we'll tie it up all nice and safe
so you won't lose it."

The  little  boy  delightedly  deposited  the  Orb in  the  leather  pouch.
"Errand," he declared firmly.

"I suppose so," Durnik agreed. He pulled the drawstring tight and then tied
the pouch to the bit of rope the boy wore as a belt. "There we are, Errand.
All safe and secure now."

Errand examined the pouch  carefully, tugging at it a few times as if to be
sure it  was tightly tied. Then he gave a happy  little laugh, put his arms
about Durnik's neck and kissed his cheek.

"He's   a  good   lad,"   Durnik  said,   looking  a   trifle  embarrassed.

"He's totally innocent," Aunt Pol told him from where she was examining the
sleeping  Belgarath. "He  has no  idea of  the difference between  good and
evil, so everything in the world seems good to him."

"I wonder  what it's like to  see the world that  way," Taiba mused, gently
touching the  child's smiling face. "No sorrow; no fear;  no pain - just to
love  everything you  see  because you  believe that  everything  is good."

Relg,  however, had  looked up  sharply. The  troubled expression  that had
hovered on his face  since he had rescued the trapped slave woman fell away
to be replaced by that look of fanatic zeal that it had always worn before.
"Monstrous!" he gasped.

Taiba  turned  on  him,  her eyes  hardening.  "What's  so monstrous  about
happiness?" she demanded, putting her arm about the boy.

"We aren't here to be happy," he replied, carefully avoiding her eyes.

"Why are we here then?" she challenged.

"To serve our  God and to avoid sin." He still refused  to look at her, and
his tone seemed a trifle less certain.

"Well, I  don't have a God," she retorted,  "and the child probably doesn't
either, so if  it's all the same to you, he and  I will just concentrate on
trying to  be happy - and  if a bit of  sin gets involved in  it, so what?"

"Have you no shame?" His voice was choked.

"I am what I  am," she replied, "and I won't apologize, since I didn't have
very much to say about it."

"Boy," Relg snapped at the child, "come away from her at once."

Taiba  straightened,  her  face  hardening even  more,  and  she faced  him
defiantly.  "What  do  you   think  you're  going  to  do?"  she  demanded.

"I will fight sin wherever I find it," he declared.

"Sin, sin, sin!" she flared. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"It's   my   constant   care.   I   guard   against   it   every   moment."

She laughed. "How tedious.  Can't you think of anything better to do? Oh, I
forgot," she  added mockingly. "There's all  that praying too, isn't there?
All that bawling at  your God about how vile you are. I think you must bore
this   UL   of   yours  tremendously   sometimes,   do   you  know   that?"

Enraged, Relg raised his fist. "Don't ever speak UL's name again!"

"Will you  hit me  if I do? It  doesn't matter that much.  People have been
hitting me  all my life. Go ahead, Relg. Why don't  you hit me?" She lifted
her smudged face to him.

Relg's hand fell.

Sensing her advantage, Taiba  put her hands to the throat of the rough gray
dress  Polgara  had given  her.  "I  can stop  you,  Relg,"  she told  him.

She began  unfastening the  dress. "Watch me.  You look at me  all the time
anyway - I've seen  you with your hot eyes on me. You call me names and say
that I'm wicked, but still you watch. Look then. Don't try to hide it." She
continued to  unfasten the front of  the dress. "If you're  free of sin, my
body shouldn't bother you at all."

Relg's eyes were bulging now.

"My body  doesn't bother me, but it bothers you  very much, doesn't it? But
is the  wickedness in my mind  or yours? I can  sink you in sin  any time I
want to.  All I have to  do is this." And she pulled  open the front of her
dress.

Relg spun about, making strangled noises.

"Don't   you  want   to   look,  Relg?"   she  mocked   him  as   he  fled.

"You  have  a  formidable weapon  there,  Taiba,"  Silk congratulated  her.

"It was the only  weapon I had in the slave pens," she told him. "I learned
to use  it when  I had to."  She carefully rebuttoned her  dress and turned
back to Errand as if nothing had happened.

"What's all  the shouting?"  Belgarath mumbled, rousing  slightly, and they
all turned quickly to him.

"Relg and Taiba were  having a little theological discussion," Silk replied
lightly. "The finer points were very interesting. How are you?" But the old
man had already drifted back into sleep.

"At least he's starting to come around," Durnik noted.

"It will  be several days  before he's fully recovered,"  Polgara told him,
putting her hand to Belgarath's forehead. "He's still terribly weak."

Garion slept for most  of the day, wrapped in his blankets and lying on the
stony ground.  When the  chill and a particularly  uncomfortable rock under
his hip  finally woke him, it  was late afternoon. Silk  sat guard near the
mouth of  the ravine,  staring out at  the black sand and  the grayish salt
flats, but the rest were all asleep. As he walked quietly down to where the
little man sat, Garion noticed that Aunt Pol slept with Errand in her arms,
and he pushed away  a momentary surge of jealousy. Taiba murmured something
as he passed,  but a quick glance told him that she  was not awake. She was
lying not  far from Relg; in her sleep, her hand  seemed to be reaching out
toward the slumbering Ulgo.

Silk's sharp  little face  was alert and  he showed no  signs of weariness.
"Good morning," he murmured, "or whatever."

"Don't you ever get  tired?" Garion asked him, speaking quietly so that his
voice would not disturb the others.

"I slept a bit," Silk told him.

Durnik  came out  from  under the  canvas roof  to  join them,  yawning and
rubbing at his eyes.  "I'll relieve you now," he said to Silk. "Did you see
anything?" He squinted out toward the lowering sun.

Silk shrugged. "Some Murgos.  They were a couple of miles off to the south.
I don't  think anyone's  found our trail  yet. We might  have to  make it a
little more obvious for them."

Garion felt a peculiar,  oppressive sort of weight on the back of his neck.
He glanced around uncomfortably.  Then, with no warning, there was a sudden
sharp stab  that seemed to go straight into his  mind. He gasped and tensed
his will, pushing the attack away.

"What's wrong?" Silk asked sharply.

"A Grolim,"  Garion snarled,  clenching his will  as he prepared  to fight.

"Garion!"  It was  Aunt Pol, and  her voice  sounded urgent. He  turned and
darted back in under  the canvas with Silk and Durnik on his heels. She had
risen to her feet and was standing with her arms protectively about Errand.

"That was  a Grolim, wasn't it?" Garion demanded,  his voice sounding a bit
shrill.

"It was  more than  one," she replied  tensely. "The Hierarchs  control the
Grolims now that Ctuchik's  dead. They've joined their wills to try to kill
Errand."

The others,  awakened by  her sharp cry,  were stumbling to  their feet and
reaching for weapons.

"Why are they after the boy?" Silk asked.

"They know that he's the only one who can touch the Orb. They think that if
he dies, we won't be able to get it out of Cthol Murgos."

"What do we do?" Garion asked her, looking around helplessly.

"I'm going  to have to concentrate on protecting  the child," she told him.
"Step back, Garion."

"What?"

"Get back away from  me." She bent and drew a circle in the sand, enclosing
herself and  the little  boy in it. "Listen  to me, all of  you," she said.
"Until we're  out of this, none  of you come any closer  to me than this. I
don't want  any of  you getting hurt."  She drew herself up,  and the white
lock in her hair seemed to blaze.

"Wait," Garion exclaimed.

"I don't  dare. They could attack again at any moment.  It's going to be up
to you to protect your grandfather and the others."

" Me?"

"You're the only one who can do it. You have the power. Use it." She raised
her hand.

"How many  of them are there  that I have to  fight off?" Garion demantled,
but he already felt  the sudden surge and the peculiar roaring sound in his
mind as  Aunt Pol's will thrust  out. The air about  her seemed to shimmer,
distorting  like heat-waves  on a  summer afternoon. Garion  could actually
feel the barrier encircling her. "Aunt Pol?" he said to her. Then he raised
his voice and shouted, "Aunt Pol!"

She shook her head and pointed at her ear. She seemed to say something, but
no sound penetrated the shimmering shield she had erected.

"How many?" Garion mouthed the words exaggeratedly.

She held up both hands with one thumb folded in.

"Nine?" he mouthed again.

She nodded and then drew her cloak in around the little boy.

"Well, Garion?" Silk asked then, his eyes penetrating, "What do we do now?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"You  heard her.  Belgarath's still in  a daze,  and she's busy.  You're in
charge now."

"Me?"

"What do  we do?"  Silk pressed. "You've  got to learn  to make decisions."

"I don't know." Garion floundered helplessly.

"Never  admit that,"  Silk told  him. "Act  as if  you know  - even  if you
don't."

"We-uh-we'll wait  until it gets dark, I guess -  then we'll keep going the
same way we have been."

"There." Silk grinned. "See how easy it is?"





Chapter Three

THERE  WAS THE  faintest  sliver of  a moon  low over  the horizon  as they
started out  across the  black sand of  the wasteland in  the biting chill.
Garion felt distinctly uncomfortable  in the role Silk had thrust upon him.
He knew that there  had been no need for it, since they all knew where they
were going and what  they had to do. If any kind of leadership had actually
been required, Silk himself was the logical one to provide it; but instead,
the little man had placed the burden squarely on Garion's shoulders and now
seemed  to   be  watching  intently   to  see  how  he   would  handle  it.

There was  no time  for leadership or  even discussion when,  shortly after
midnight, they ran into a party of Murgos. There were six of them, and they
came galloping  over a low ridge  to the south and  blundered directly into
the  middle of  Garion's  party. Barak  and Mandorallen  reacted  with that
instant violence  of trained warriors, their  swords whistling out of their
sheaths to  crunch with steely ringing  sounds into the mail-skirted bodies
of the startled Murgos.  Even as Garion struggled to draw his own sword, he
saw one of the black-robed intruders tumble limply out of his saddle, while
another, howling with pain and surprise, toppled slowly backward, clutching
at  his chest.  There was  a confusion  of shouts  and shrill  screams from
terrified horses  as the men  fought in the darkness.  One frightened Murgo
wheeled his  mount to flee,  but Garion, without even  thinking, pulled his
horse in  front of him, sword raised to strike.  The desperate Murgo made a
frantic  swing with  his own  weapon, but  Garion easily parried  the badly
aimed  swipe and flicked  his blade  lightly, whiplike, across  the Murgo's
shoulder.  There was  a satisfying crunch  as the  sharp edge bit  into the
Murgo's mail shirt. Garion  deftly parried another clumsy swing and whipped
his blade again, slashing the Murgo across the face. All the instruction he
had  received from  his  friends seemed  to click  together into  a single,
unified  style that  was part  Cherek, part  Arendish, part Algar,  and was
distinctly  Garion's own. This  style baked  the frightened Murgo,  and his
efforts  became  more desperate.  But  each  time he  swung, Garion  easily
parried  and instantly  countered with  those light, flicking  slashes that
inevitably drew  blood. Garion  felt a wild, surging  exultation boiling in
his  veins  as  he fought,  and  there  was a  fiery  taste  in his  mouth.

Then Relg  darted in out of the shadows, jerked  the Murgo off balance, and
drove his  hook-pointed knife  up under the  man's ribs. The  Murgo doubled
over sharply, shuddered, then fell dead from his saddle.

"What did you do  that for?" Garion demanded without thinking. "That was my
Murgo."

Barak, surveying  the carnage,  laughed, his sudden mirth  startling in the
darkness. "He's turning savage on us, isn't he?"

"His  skill  is  noteworthy,  however,"  Mandorallen  replied  approvingly.

Garion's  spirits soared.  He  looked around  eagerly for  someone  else to
fight,  but the  Murgos  were all  dead.  "Were they  alone?" he  demanded,
somewhat out of breath.  "I mean, were there any others coming along behind
them? Maybe we should go look."

"We do want them to find our trail, after all," Silk reminded him. "It's up
to you of course, Garion, but if we exterminate all the Murgos in the area,
there won't be anyone  left to report our direction back to Rak Cthol, will
there?"

"Oh," Garion said, feeling a little sheepish, "I forgot about that."

"You have to keep  the grand plan in view, Garion, and not lose sight of it
during these little side adventures."

"Maybe I got carried away."

"A good leader can't afford to do that."

"All right." Garion began to feel embarrassed.

"I just wanted to be sure you understood, that's all."

Garion  didn't answer,  but he  began to  see what  it was about  Silk that
irritated  Belgarath so  much. Leadership  was enough  of a  burden without
these continuously comments from  the weasel-faced little man to complicate
things.

"Are  you all  right?"  Taiba was  saying to  Relg with  a strange  note of
concern in  her voice. The Ulgo  was still on his  knees beside the body of
the Murgo he had killed.

"Leave me alone," he told her harshly.

"Don't be stupid. Are you hurt? Let me see."

"Don't touch  me!" He cringed away  from her outstretched hand. "Belgarion,
make her get away from me."

Garion   groaned   inwardly.   "What's   the  trouble   now?"   he   asked.

"I killed this man," Relg replied. "There are certain things I have to do -
certain prayers - purification. She's interfering."

Garion resisted an impulse  to swear. "Please, Taiba," he said as calmly as
he could, "just leave him alone."

"I  just  wanted  to  see if  he  was  all  right,"  Taiba  answered a  bit
petulantly. "I  wasn't hurting him." She  had an odd look  on her face that
Garion could not begin to understand. As she stared at the kneeling Ulgo, a
curious  little  smile  flickered across  her  lips.  Without warning,  she
reached her hand out toward him again.

Relg shrank back. "No!" he gasped.

Taiba chuckled,  a throaty,  wicked little sound, and  walked away, humming
softly to herself. After Relg had performed his ritual of purification over
the dead Murgo's body, they remounted and rode on. The sliver of moon stood
high  overhead in the  chill sky, casting  a pale  light down on  the black
sands, and  Garion looked about constantly  as he rode, trying  to pick out
any  possible dangers  lurking ahead.  He glanced  frequently at  Aunt Pol,
wishing that she were not so completely cut off from him, but she seemed to
be totally absorbed in maintaining her shield of will. She rode with Errand
pulled closely against her, and her eyes were distant, unfathomable. Garion
looked hopefully  at Belgarath, but the  old man, though he  looked up from
his  doze at  times,  seemed largely  unaware of  his  surroundings. Garion
sighed, and  his eyes  resumed their nervous  scrutiny of the  trail ahead.
They  rode on through  the tag-end of  night in  the biting chill  with the
faint moonlight  about them and the stars glittering  like points of ice in
the sky above.

Suddenly Garion  heard a roaring in his mind - a  sound that had a peculiar
echo to it - and the shield of force surrounding Aunt Pol shimmered with an
ugly orange glow. He  jerked his will in sharply and gestured with a single
word. He had no idea what word he used, but it seemed to work. Like a horse
blundering into a covey  of feeding birds, his will scattered the concerted
attack on  Aunt Pol and Errand. There had been  more than one mind involved
in the  attack - he sensed  that - but it seemed  to make no difference. He
caught a momentary flicker  of chagrin and even fear as the joined wills of
Aunt Pol's attackers broke and fled from him.

"Not bad,"the  voice in his  mind observed. "A little  clumsy, perhaps, but
not bad at all."

"It's the first time I ever did it, " Garion replied. "I'll get better with
more practice."

"Don't get  overconfident," the voice advised dryly,  and then it was gone.

He was growing stronger, there was no doubt about that. The ease with which
he had  dispersed the combined wills of that group  of Grolims Aunt Pol had
called the  Hierarchs amazed him. He faintly  began to understand what Aunt
Pol and Belgarath meant  in their use of the word "talent." There seemed to
be some kind of capacity, a limit beyond which most sorcerers could not go.
Garion realized  with a certain surprise that  he was already stronger than
men who  had been practicing this  art for centuries, and  that he was only
beginning to  touch the edges of  his talent. The thought  of what he might
eventually   be  able   to  do   was  more   than  a   little  frightening.

It did, however, make him feel somewhat more secure. He straightened in his
saddle and  rode a bit  more confidently. Perhaps leadership  wasn't so bad
after all.  It took some getting  used to, but once  you knew what you were
doing, it didn't seem all that hard.

The next  attack came as the eastern horizon had  begun to grow pale behind
them.  Aunt Pol,  her horse,  and the  little boy  all seemed to  vanish as
absolute blackness engulfed them. Garion struck back instantly and he added
a contemptuous  little twist  to it -  a stinging slap at  the joined minds
that had  mounted the  attack. He felt  a glow of self  satisfaction at the
surprise  and  pain in  the  minds as  they  flinched back  from his  quick
counterblow. There was a  glimpse - just a momentary one - of nine very old
men in  black robes seated around  a table in a  room somewhere. One of the
walls of  the room  had a large  crack in it,  and part of  the ceiling had
collapsed as a result of the earthquake that had convulsed Rak Cthol. Eight
of  the evil  old men looked  surprised and  frightened; the ninth  one had
fainted. The darkness surrounding Aunt Pol disappeared.

"What are they doing?" Silk asked him.

"They're  trying to break  through Aunt  Pol's shield," Garion  replied. "I
gave them something to think about." He felt a little smug about it.

Silk  looked at  him,  his eyes  narrowed shrewdly.  "Don't  overdo things,
Garion," he advised.

"Somebody had to do something," Garion protested.

"That's usually the way  it works out. All I'm saying is that you shouldn't
lose your perspective."

The broken wall of peaks that marked the western edge of the waste land was
clearly visible  as the light began  to creep up the  eastern sky. "How far
would you say it is?" Garion asked Durnik.

The smith squinted at the mountains ahead. "Two or three leagues at least,"
he judged. "Distances are deceiving in this kind of light."

"Well?" Barak asked. "Do we take cover for the day here or do we make a run
for it?"

Garion thought about that.  "Are we going to change direction as soon as we
get to the mountains?" he asked Mandorallen.

"It would seem better mayhap to continue our present course for some little
distance first," the knight  replied thoughtfully. "A natural boundary such
as  that  which  lies  ahead might  attract  more  than passing  scrutiny."

"That's a good point," Silk agreed.

Garion  scratched at  his cheek,  noticing that  his whiskers had  begun to
sprout again.  "Maybe we  should stop here  then," he suggested.  "We could
start out again when the sun goes down, get up into the mountains a way and
then rest. When the sun comes up tomorrow morning, we can change our route.
That way, we'll have light enough to see any tracks we leave and cover them
up."

"Seems like a good plan," Barak approved.

"Let's do it that way then," Garion decided.

They sought out another  ridge and another ravine, and once again concealed
it with  their tent canvas. Although he was  tired, Garion was reluctant to
lose himself  in sleep. Not only did the  cares of leadership press heavily
on him, but he also felt apprehensive about the possibility of an attack by
the Hierarchs  coming while  he was asleep.  As the others  began to unroll
their blankets, he walked  about rather aimlessly, stopping to look at Aunt
Pol,  who sat  with her  back against  a large  rock, holding  the sleeping
Errand and  looking as  distant as the  moon behind her  shimmering shield.
Garion sighed and went  on down to the mouth of the ravine where Durnik was
attending  to the  horses.  It had  occurred to  him  that all  their lives
depended on  the well-being  of their mounts,  and that gave  him something
else to worry about.

"How are they?" he asked Durnik as he approached.

"They're bearing up fairly well," Durnik replied. "They've come a long way,
though, and it's beginning to show on some of them."

"Is there anything we can do for them?"

"A  week's rest  in a good  pasture, perhaps,"  Durnik answered with  a wry
smile.

Garion laughed. "I think we could all use a week's rest in a good pasture."

"You've really grown, Garion," Durnik observed as he lifted another horse's
hind hoof to examine it for cuts or bruises.

Garion glanced at  his arm and saw that his wrist stuck  an inch or two out
of his  sleeve. "Most of my  clothes still fit -  pretty much," he replied.

"That's not  the way I  meant." Durnik hesitated. "What's  it like, Garion?
Being able to do things the way you do?"

"It scares me, Durnik,"  Garion admitted quietly. "I didn't really want any
of this, but it didn't give me any choice."

"You  mustn't  let  it  frighten you,  you  know,"  Durnik said,  carefully
lowering the horse's hoof. "If it's part of you, it's part of you just like
being tall or having blond hair."

"It's not really like that, Durnik. Being tall or having blond hair doesn't
hurt anybody. This can."

Durnik looked out at the long shadows of the ridge stretching away from the
newly risen sun. "You just have to learn to be careful with it, that's all.
When I  was about your age,  I found out that I  was much stronger than the
other young men in our village - probably because I worked in the smithy. I
didn't want to hurt  anybody, so I wouldn't wrestle with my friends. One of
them thought  I was  a coward because of  that and he pushed  me around for
about six months until I finally lost my temper."

"Did you fight him?"

Durnik nodded.  "It wasn't really much of a contest.  After it was over, he
realized that  I wasn't a coward after all. We even  got to be good friends
again  - after  his bones  all healed  up and  he got  used to  the missing
teeth."

Garion  grinned at  him,  and Durnik  smiled back  a  bit ruefully.  "I was
ashamed of myself afterward, of course."

Garion  felt very  close to this  plain, solid  man. Durnik was  his oldest
friend - somebody he could always count on.

"What I'm trying to  say, Garion," Durnik continued seriously, "is that you
can't go through life  being afraid of what you are. If you do that, sooner
or later somebody will  come along who'll misunderstand, and you'll have to
do something  to show him that it's not him that  you're afraid of. When it
goes  that far,  it's  usually much  worse for  you  - and  for  him, too."

"As it was with Asharak?"

Durnik nodded.  "It's always  best in the long  run to be what  you are. It
isn't proper to behave  as if you were more, but it isn't good to behave as
if  you were  less,  either. Do  you understand  what  I'm trying  to say?"

"The whole  problem seems  to be finding  out just exactly  what you really
are," Garion observed.

Durnik smiled  again. "That's the part  that gets most of  us in trouble at
times,"  he agreed.  Suddenly  the smile  fell away  from  his face  and he
gasped.  Then he  fell writhing  to the  ground, clutching at  his stomach.

"Durnik!" Garion cried, "What's wrong?"

But Durnik could not answer. His face was ashen and contorted with agony as
he twisted in the dirt.

Garion felt a strange, alien pressure and he understood instantly. Thwarted
in  their  attempts to  kill  Errand,  the Hierarchs  were directing  their
attacks at the others in the hope of forcing Aunt Pol to drop her shield. A
terrible rage boiled up  in him. His blood seemed to burn, and a fierce cry
came to his lips.

"Calmly." It was the voice within his mind again.

"What do I do?"

"Get out into the sunlight."

Garion did  not understand  that, but he  ran out past the  horses into the
pale morning light.

"Put yourself into your shadow. "

He looked  down at the shadow stretching out on the  ground in front of him
and obeyed  the voice. He wasn't sure exactly how he  did it, but he poured
his will and his awareness into the shadow.

"Now, follow the trail of their thought back to them. Quickly." Garion felt
himself  suddenly   flying.  Enclosed   in  his  shadow,   he  touched  the
still-writhing Durnik  once like a sniffing  hound, picked up the direction
of  the concerted  thought  that had  felled his  friend, and  then flashed
through the air back over the miles of wasteland toward the wreckage of Rak
Cthol. He had, it  seemed, no weight, and there was an odd purplish cast to
everything he saw.

He felt  his immensity as he  entered the room with  the cracked wall where
the nine black-robed old  men sat, trying with the concerted power of their
minds to  kill Durnik. Their eyes  were all focused on  a huge ruby, nearly
the size  of a man's head, which lay flickering in  the center of the table
around which  they sat. The slanting rays of  the morning sun had distorted
and enlarged Garion's shadow, and he filled one corner of the room, bending
slightly so  that he could fit under the ceiling.  "Stop!" he roared at the
evil old men. "Leave Durnik alone!"

They  flinched back  from  his sudden  apparition,  and he  could feel  the
thought they were directing at Durnik through the stone on the table falter
and begin  to fall  apart. He took  a threatening step and  saw them cringe
away  from  him  in   the  purple  light  that  half  clouded  his  vision.

Then  one  of  the old  men-very  thin  and with  a  long  dirty beard  and
completely hairless  scalp -  seemed to recover from  his momentary fright.
"Stand firm!"  he snapped at the others. "Keep  the thought on the Sendar!"

"Leave him alone!" Garion shouted at them.

"Who says so?" the thin old man drawled insultingly.

"I do."

"And just who are you?"

"I am Belgarion. Leave my friends alone."

The old  man laughed, and his laugh was as  chilling as Ctuchik's had been.
"Actually,  you're only  Belgarion's  shadow," he  corrected. "We  know the
trick of the shadow.  You can talk and bluster and threaten, but that's all
you can do. You're just a powerless shade, Belgarion."

"Leave us alone!"

"And what  will you  do if we  don't?" The old  man's face  was filled with
contemptuous amusement.

"Is he right?" Garion demanded of the voice within his mind.

"Perhaps perhaps  not,"the voice replied. "A  few men have been  able to go
beyond the limitation. You won't know unless you try."

Despite his dreadful anger, Garion did not want to kill any of them. "Ice!"
he said,  focusing on  the idea of cold  and lashing out with  his will. It
felt odd  - almost  tenuous, as if it  had no substance behind  it, and the
roaring was hollow and puny-sounding.

The bald  old man sneered and waggled  his beard insultingly. Garion ground
his insubstantial  teeth and  drew himself in  with dreadful concentration.
"Burn!"  he said then,  driving his will.  There was  a flicker and  then a
sudden flash.  The force of Garion's will burst  forth, directed not at the
bald man himself, but rather at his whiskers.

The Hierarch jumped up  and stumbled back with a hoarse exclamation, trying
desperately to beat the flames out of his beard.

The  concerted thought  of  the Hierarchs  shattered  as the  rest of  them
scrambled to their feet  in terrified astonishment. Grimly, Garion gathered
his swelling will and  began to lay about him with his immensely long arms.
He tumbled the Hierarchs across the rough stone floor and slammed them into
walls. Squealing  with fright, they  scurried this way and  that, trying to
escape,  but he  methodically reached out  and grasped  them one by  one to
administer his  chastisement. With  a peculiar kind of  detachment, he even
stuffed one  of them  headfirst into the  crack in the  wall, pushing quite
firmly   until  only  a   pair  of   wriggling  feet  were   sticking  out.

Then,  when it  was  done, he  turned back  to the  bald Hierarch,  who had
managed finally to beat the last of the fire out of his beard.

"It's impossible  - impossible," the Hierarch  protested, his face stunned.
"How did you do it?"

"I told  you -  I am Belgarion.  I can do  things you  can't even imagine."

"The jewel,  "the voice told him.  "They're using the jewel  to focus their
attacks. Destroy it."

"How?"

"It can only hold so much. Look."

Garion suddenly  found that he could actually see  into the interior of the
still-flickering ruby  on the table. He saw  the minute stress lines within
its crystalline structure, and then he understood. He turned his will on it
and poured all his  anger into it. The stone blazed with light and began to
pulsate as the force  within it swelled. Then, with a sharp detonation, the
stone exploded into fragments.

"No!" the bald Hierarch  wailed. "You idiot! That stone was irreplaceable."

"Listen to me, old  man," Garion said in an awful voice, "you will leave us
alone. You  will not pursue  us, or try to  injure any of us  any more." He
reached out with his  shadowy hand and slid it directly into the bald man's
chest. He could feel  the heart flutter like a terrified bird and the lungs
falter as the Hierarch's breath stopped and he gaped with horror at the arm
sticking out of his  chest. Garion slowly opened his fingers very wide. "Do
you understand me?" he demanded.

The Hierarch  gurgled and  tried to take  hold of the arm,  but his fingers
found nothing to grasp.

"Do  you understand me?"  Garion repeated  and suddenly clenched  his fist.

The Hierarch screamed.

"Are you going to leave us alone?"

"Please, Belgarion! No more! I'm dying!"

"Are   you   going   to   leave   us   alone?"   Garion   demanded   again.

"Yes,  yes  - anything,  but  please stop!  I  beg you!  I'll do  anything.
Please!"

Garion unclenched his fist  and drew his hand out of the Hierarch's heaving
chest. He  held it up, clawlike,  directly in front of  the old man's face.
"Look at this and  remember it," he said in a dreadfully quiet voice. "Next
time   I'll   reach   into   your  chest   and   pull   your  heart   out."

The Hierarch  shrank back, his eyes filled with horror  as he stared at the
awful hand. "I promise you," he stammered. "I promise."

"Your life  depends on it," Garion  told him, then turned  and flashed back
across the  empty miles toward his friends.  Quite suddenly he was standing
at the  mouth of the ravine staring down at  his shadow slowly reforming on
the  ground before  him.  The purple  haze was  gone; strangely  enough, he
didn't even feel tired.

Durnik   drew   in   a   shuddering   breath   and   struggled   to   rise.

Garion turned  quickly and ran back to his friend.  "Are you all right?" he
asked, taking hold of the smith's arm.

"It  was like  a knife  twisting inside  me," Durnik  replied in  a shaking
voice. "What was it?"

"The Grolim  Hierarchs were  trying to kill  you," Garion told  him. Durnik
looked around, his eyes frightened.

"Don't worry,  Durnik. They won't do  it again."' Garion helped  him to his
feet and together they went back into the ravine.

Aunt Pol  was looking directly at  him as he approached  her. Her eyes were
penetrating.   "You're   growing  up   very   fast,"  she   said  to   him.

"I  had to  do  something," he  replied.  "What happened  to your  shield?"

"It doesn't seem to be necessary any more."

"Not bad,"  Belgarath said. The old man was sitting  up. He looked weak and
drawn, but  his eyes were alert.  "Some of it was a  bit exotic; but on the
whole, it  wasn't bad at all. The business with the  hand was just a little
overdone, though."

"I wanted to be  sure he understood that I meant what I was saying." Garion
felt  a   tremendous  wave  of  relief   at  his  grandfather's  return  to
consciousness.

"I think  you convinced him,"  Belgarath said dryly. "Is  there anything to
eat somewhere nearby?" he asked Aunt Pol.

"Are you all right now, Grandfather?" Garion asked him.

"Aside from being as  weak as a fresh-hatched baby chick and as hungry as a
she-wolf  with nine puppies,  I'm just  fine," Belgarath replied.  "I could
really use something to eat, Polgara."

"I'll see what I can find, father," she told him, turning to the packs.

"I  don't   know  that   you  need  to   bother  cooking  it,"   he  added.

The little  boy had been looking  curiously at Garion, his  wide, blue eyes
serious and slightly puzzled. Quite suddenly he laughed; smiling, he looked
into Garion's face. "Belgarion," he said.





Chapter Four

"NO  REGRETS?" SILK  asked  Garion that  evening  as they  rode toward  the
sharply  rising   peaks  outlined  against  the   glittering  stars  ahead.

"Regrets about what?"

"Giving up  command." Silk had  been watching him curiously  ever since the
setting sun had signalled the resumption of their journey.

"No," Garion replied, not quite sure what the little man meant. "Why should
there be?"

"It's a  very important  thing for a  man to learn  about himself, Garion,"
Silk told  him seriously.  "Power can be  very sweet for some  men, and you
never know how a  man's going to handle it until you give him the chance to
try."

"I don't know why you went to all the trouble. It's not too likely that I'm
going to be put in charge of things very often."

"You never know, Garion. You never know."

They  rode on  across the barren  black sands  of the wasteland  toward the
mountains looming  ahead. The quarter moon rose  behind them, and its light
was cold and white. Near the edge of the wasteland there were a few scrubby
thornbushes huddling  low to  the sand and  silvered with frost.  It was an
hour or so before  midnight when they finally reached rocky ground, and the
hooves  of their  horses clattered sharply  as they  climbed up out  of the
sandy waste.  When they topped the first ridge,  they stopped to look back.
The dark  expanse of  the wasteland behind  them was dotted  with the watch
fires  of  the Murgos,  and  far back  along  their trail  they saw  moving
torches.

"I was starting to worry about that," Silk said to Belgarath, "but it looks
as if they found our trail after all."

"Let's  hope they  don't  lose it  again," the  old  man replied.  "Not too
likely, really. I made it pretty obvious."

"Murgos  can be  a bit  undependable sometimes."  Belgarath seemed  to have
recovered  almost  completely,  but  Garion  noted  a weary  slump  to  his
shoulders  and  was  glad  that  they  did  not  plan to  ride  all  night.

The mountains into which they rode were as arid and rocky as the ones lying
to the  north had been. There were looming cliffs  and patches of alkali on
the ground  and a bitingly cold wind that  seemed to wail endlessly through
the rocks  and to tug at the coarse-woven  Murgo robes that disguised them.
They pushed on until they were well into the mountains; then, several hours
before  dawn,  they stopped  to  rest  and to  wait  for the  sun to  rise.

When the  first faint light appeared on the  eastern horizon, Silk rode out
and located a rocky gap passing to the northwest between two ocherous cliff
faces. As  soon as he returned,  they saddled their horses  again and moved
out at a trot.

"We can  get rid  of these now,  I think," Belgarath said,  pulling off his
Murgo robe.

"I'll take  them," Silk  suggested as he  reined in. "The  gap's just ahead
there."   He   pointed.   "I'll   catch  up   in   a   couple  of   hours."

"Where are you going?" Barak asked him.

"I'll  leave a  few miles more  of false  trail," Silk replied.  "Then I'll
double back  and make sure that you haven't left  any tracks. It won't take
long."

"You want some company?" the big man offered.

Silk shook his head. "I can move faster alone."

"Be careful."

Silk grinned.  "I'm always careful."  He took the Murgo  garments from them
and rode off to the west.

The gap  into which they rode  appeared to be the bed  of a stream that had
dried  up thousands  of years before.  The water  had cut down  through the
rock, revealing  layer upon layer of red, brown,  and yellow stone lying in
bands, one atop the  other. The sound of their horses' hooves was very loud
as they  clattered along  between the cliffs,  and the wind  whistled as it
poured through the cut.

Taiba drew her horse  in beside Garion's. She was shivering and she had the
cloak he  had given her pulled  tightly ahout her shoulders.  "Is it always
this cold?" she asked, her large, violet eyes very wide.

"In the  wintertime," he  replied. "I imagine  it's pretty hot  here in the
summer."

"The slave  pens were always the  same," she told him.  "We never knew what
season it was."

The twisting  streambed made a sharp bend to the  right, and they rode into
the light of the newly risen sun. Taiba gasped.

"What's wrong?" Garion asked her quickly.

"The light,"  she cried, covering her face with  her hands. "It's like fire
in my eyes."

Relg, who  rode directly in front of them, was  also shielding his eyes. He
looked back over his  shoulder at the Marag woman. "Here," he said. He took
one of the veils  he usually bound across his eyes when they were in direct
sunlight and handed it  back to her. "Cover your face with this until we're
back  into   the  shadows   again."  His  voice   was  peculiarly  neutral.

"Thank you," Taiba said,  binding the cloth across her eyes. "I didn't know
that the sun could be so bright."

"You'll get  used to it," Relg  told her. "It just  takes some time. Try to
protect your eyes for the first few days." He seemed about to turn and ride
on,  then  he looked  at  her curiously.  "Haven't  you ever  seen the  sun
before?" he asked her.

"No," she replied. "Other slaves told me about it, though. The Murgos don't
use women on their work gangs, so I was never taken out of the pens. It was
always dark down there."

"It must have been terrible." Garion shuddered.

She shrugged. "The dark  wasn't so bad. It was the light we were afraid of.
Light meant that the Murgos were coming with torches to take someone to the
Temple to be sacrificed."

The trail they followed turned again, and they rode out of the bright glare
of sunlight.  "Thank you," Taiba said  to Relg, removing the  veil from her
eyes and holding it out to him.

"Keep it,"  he told her. "You'll probably need  it again." His voice seemed
oddly subdued, and his  eyes had a strange gentleness in them. As he looked
at her, the haunted expression crept back over his face.

Since they  had left Rak Cthol,  Garion had covertly watched  these two. He
knew that  Relg, despite all his  efforts, could not take  his eyes off the
Marag woman he had  been forced to rescue from her living entombment in the
caves.  Although Relg  still  ranted about  sin continually,  his  words no
longer carried the weight  of absolute conviction; indeed quite often, they
seemed to be little more than a mechanical repetition of a set of formulas.
Occasionally,  Garion  had noted,  even  those formulas  had faltered  when
Taiba's  deep violet  eyes had turned  to regard  the Ulgo's face.  For her
part,  Taiba was quite  obviously puzzled.  Relg's rejection of  her simple
gratitude  had  humiliated  her,  and  her  resentment  had  been  hot  and
immediate.  His constant  scrutiny, however,  spoke to  her with  a meaning
altogether different from the words coming from his lips. His eyes told her
one thing,  but his mouth said something else. She  was baffled by him, not
knowing whether to respond to his look or his words.

"You've lived your whole life in the dark, then?" Relg asked her curiously.

"Most  of it,"  she replied.  "I saw my  mother's face  once - the  day the
Murgos came and took her to the Temple. I was alone after that. Being alone
is  the  worst  of  it.  You  can  bear  the  dark if  you  aren't  alone."

"How old were you when they took your mother away?"

"I don't really know.  I must have been almost a woman, though, because not
long after  that the Murgos gave me to a slave  who had pleased them. There
were a  lot of slaves in  the pens who did  anything the Murgos wanted, and
they were  rewarded with extra food - or with women.  I cried at first; but
in  time  I learned  to  accept  it. At  least  I wasn't  alone any  more."

Relg's face  hardened, and  Taiba saw the  expression. "What should  I have
done?" she  asked him.  "When you're a  slave, your body  doesn't belong to
you. They  can sell  you or give you  to anybody they want  to, and there's
nothing you can do about it."

"There must have been something."

"Such as what?  I didn't have any kind of weapon to  fight with -or to kill
myself with - and  you can't strangle yourself." She looked at Garion. "Did
you know  that? Some of  the slaves tried it,  but all you do  is fall into
unconsciousness, and then you  start to breathe again. Isn't that curious?"

"Did  you try  to fight?"  It seemed  terribly important  to Relg  for some
reason.

"What would  have been  the point? The  slave they gave me  to was stronger
than I. He'd have just hit me until I did what he wanted."

"You should have fought," Relg declared adamantly. "A little pain is better
than sin, and giving up like that is sin."

"Is it? If somebody  forces you to do something and there's no possible way
to avoid it, is it really sin?"

Relg  started to  answer,  but her  eyes, looking  directly into  his face,
seemed  to stop  up  his tongue.  He faltered,  unable  to face  that gaze.
Abruptly  he  turned his  mount  and  rode back  toward  the pack  animals.

"Why does he fight with himself so much?" Taiba asked.

"He's  completely devoted to  his God,"  Garion explained. "He's  afraid of
anything  that might  take  away some  of what  he  feels he  owes  to UL."

"Is this UL of his really that jealous?"

"No, I don't think so, but Relg does."

Taiba pursed her lips into a sensual pout and looked back over her shoulder
at  the retreating  zealot. "You  know," she  said, "I think  he's actually
afraid of  me." She laughed then,  that same low, wicked  little laugh, and
lifted her arms to  run her fingers through the glory of her midnight hair.
"No one's ever  been afraid of me before - not ever.  I think I rather like
it. Will  you excuse me?" She turned her horse  without waiting for a reply
and quite deliberately rode back after the fleeing Relg.

Garion thought about it  as he rode on through the narrow, twisting canyon.
He  realized that  there  was a  strength in  Taiba that  none of  them had
suspected, and  he finally concluded that Relg was in  for a very bad time.

He trotted on ahead to speak to Aunt Po1 about it as she rode with her arms
about Errand.

"It's really none of  your busincss, Garion," she told him. "Relg and Taiba
can work out their problems without any help from you."

"I was just curious,  that's all. Relg's tearing himself apart, and Taiba's
all confused  about him.  What's really going  on between them,  Aunt Pol?"

"Something very necessary," she replied.

"You could say that about nearly everything that happens, Aunt Pol." It was
almost  an accusation.  "You could  even say  that the  way Ce'Nedra  and I
quarrel all the time is necessary too, couldn't you?"

She looked slightly amused.  "It's not exactly the same thing, Garion," she
answered, "but there's a certain necessity about that too."

"That's ridiculous," he scoffed.

"Is it really? Then why do you suppose the two of you go out of your way so
much to aggravate each other?"

He had  no answer for that, but the entire notion  worried him. At the same
time the very mention  of Ce'Nedra's name suddenly brought her sharply into
his mind,  and he  realized that he  actually missed her. He  rode along in
silence beside Aunt Pol for a while, feeling melancholy. Finally he sighed.

"And why so great a sigh?"

"It's all over, isn't it?"

"What's that?"

"This whole  thing. I mean - we've recovered the  Orb. That's what this was
all about, wasn't it?"

"There's more  to it than that,  Garion - much more -  and we're not out of
Cthol Murgos yet, are we?"

"You're  not really  worried  about that,  are you?"  But  then, as  if her
question had  suddenly uncovered some lingering doubts  in his own mind, he
stared at her in  sudden apprehension. "What would happen if we didn't?" he
blurted. "If  we didn't make it out, I mean. What  would happen to the West
if we didn't get the Orb back to Riva?"

"Things would become unpleasant."

"There'd be a war,  wouldn't there? And the Angaraks would win, and there'd
be Grolims  everywhere with their knives and  their altars." The thought of
Grolims  marching   up  to  the  gates   of  Faldor's  farm  outraged  him.

"Don't go borrowing trouble, Garion. Let's worry about one thing at a time,
shall we?"

"But what if-"

"Garion,"  she said  with  a pained  look, "don't  belabor the  'what ifs,'
please.  If  you  start  that,  you'll  just  worry  everybody  to  death."

"You say 'what if' to grandfather all the time," he accused.

"That's different," she replied.

They rode  hard for the next  several days through a  series of passes with
the dry,  bitter chill pressing at  them like some great  weight. Silk rode
back often to look  for any signs of pursuit, but their ruse seemed to have
fooled the Murgos. Finally, about noon on a cold, sunless day when the wind
was kicking up dust  clouds along the horizon, they reached the broad, arid
valley through which the  south caravan route wound. They took cover behind
a   low  hill   while  Silk   rode  on   ahead  to   take  a   quick  look.

"Thinkest  thou  that  Taur  Urgas  hath  joined  in the  search  for  us?"
Mandorallen,    dressed   again    in    his   armor,    asked   Belgarath.

"It's  hard  to say  for  sure," the  old  sorcerer replied.  "He's a  very
unpredictable man."

"There's a  Murgo patrol headed  east on the caravan  route," Silk reported
when he returned. "It  will be another half hour or so until they're out of
sight."

Belgarath nodded.

"Do  you think we'll  be safe once  we cross  over into Mishrak  ac Thull?"
Durnik asked.

"We can't count on it," Belgarath replied. "Gethel, the king of the Thulls,
is  afraid of  Taur Urgas,  so he wouldn't  make any  kind of fuss  about a
border violation if Taur Urgas decided to follow us."

They waited  until the Murgos had crossed a low ridge  to the east and then
moved out again.

For the next two days they rode steadily to the northwest. The terrain grew
less rocky after they crossed into the land of the Thulls, and they saw the
telltale dust  clouds far  behind them that  spoke of mounted  Murgo search
parties.  It was late  in the afternoon  of a  murky day when  they finally
reached the top of the eastern escarpment.

Barak glanced  back over his shoulder at the  dust clouds behind them, then
pulled  his horse  in  beside Belgarath's.  "Just how  rough is  the ground
leading down into the Vale?" he asked.

"It's not the easiest trail in the world."

"Those Murgos are less  than a day behind us, Belgarath. If we have to pick
our way down, they'll be on top of us before we make it."

Belgarath pursed  his lips,  squinting at the  dust clouds on  the southern
horizon.  "Perhaps you're right,"  he said.  "Maybe we'd better  think this
through." He raised his hand to call a halt. "It's time to make a couple of
decisions," he told the  rest of them. "The Murgos are a little closer than
we really want  them to be. It takes two to three  days to make the descent
into the Vale, and there are places where one definitely doesn't want to be
rushed."

"We  could  always go  on  to  that ravine  we  followed  coming up,"  Silk
suggested.   "It  only   takes   a  half   day  to   go  down   that  way."

"But Lord Hettar and the Algar clans of King Cho-Hag await us in the Vale,"
Mandorallen objected. "Were we  to go on, would we not lead the Murgos down
into undefended country?"

"Have we got any choice?" Silk asked him.

"We could  light fires along  the way," Barak suggested.  "Hettar will know
what they mean."

"So  would the  Murgos," Silk  said. "They'd  ride all  night and  be right
behind us every step of the way down."

Belgarath scratched  sourly at his short white  beard. "I think we're going
to have  to abandon  the original plan,"  he decided. "We have  to take the
shortest way  down, and that means the ravine, I'm  afraid. We'll be on our
own once we get down, but that can't be helped."

"Surely  King  Cho-Hag  will  have scouts  posted  along  the  foot of  the
escarpment," Durnik said, his plain face worried.

"We can hope so," Barak replied.

"All  right,"  Belgarath  said  firmly,  "we'll  use the  ravine.  I  don't
altogether like the idea, but our options seem to have been narrowed a bit.
Let's ride."

It was late afternoon when they reached the shallow gully at the top of the
steep notch  leading down to  the plain below. Belgarath  glanced once down
the precipitous cut and shook his head. "Not in the dark," he decided. "Can
you see  any signs of the  Algars?" he asked Barak,  who was staring out at
the plain below.

"I'm afraid  not," the  red-bearded man answered.  "Do you want  to light a
fire to signal them?"

"No,"  the   old  man   replied.  "Let's  not   announce  our  intentions."

"I will need  a small fire, though," Aunt Pol told him.  "We all need a hot
meal."

"I   don't   know   if   that's   wise,   Polgara,"   Belgarath   objected.

"We'll have  a hard day  tomorrow, father," she said  firmly. "Durnik knows
how to build a small fire and keep it hidden."

"Have it your own  way, Pol," the old man said in a resigned tone of voice.

"Naturally, father."

It was cold that  night, and they kept their fire small and well sheltered.
As the first light  of dawn began to stain the cloudy sky to the east, they
rose  and  prepared  to  descend the  rocky  cut  toward  the plain  below.

"I'll strike the tents," Durnik said.

"Just knock them down," Belgarath told him. He turned and nudged one of the
packs thoughtfully with his  foot. "We'll take only what we absolutely have
to have," he decided. "We're not going to have the time to waste on these."

"You're not going to leave them?" Durnik sounded shocked.

"They'll just  be in  the way, and the  horses will be able  to move faster
without them."

"But - all of our belongings!" Durnik protested.

Silk also looked a bit chagrined. He quickly spread out a blanket and began
rummaging  through  the packs,  his  quick hands  bringing out  innumerable
small,  valuable  items  and   piling  them  in  a  heap  on  the  blanket.

"Where did you get all those?" Barak asked him.

"Here and there," Silk replied evasively.

"You stole them, didn't you?"

"Some of  them," Silk  admitted. "We've been  on the road for  a long time,
Barak."

"Do you  really plan  to carry all  of that down the  ravine?" Barak asked,
curiously eyeing Silk's treasures.

Silk looked at the heap, mentally weighing it. Then he sighed with profound
regret. "No,"  he said, "I guess  not." He stood up  and scattered the heap
with his  foot. "It's  all very pretty  though, isn't it? Now  I guess I'll
have to  start all over again." He grinned  then. "It's the stealing that's
fun, anyway.  Let's go down." And he started toward  the top of the steeply
descending  streambed  that angled  sharply  down  toward the  base of  the
escarpment.

The unburdened  horses were  able to move  much more rapidly,  and they all
passed quite easily over  spots Garion remembered painfully from the upward
climb   weeks  before.  By   noon  they   were  more  than   halfway  down.

Then  Polgara  stopped and  raised  her  face. "Father,"  she said  calmly,
"they've found the top of the ravine."

"How many of them?"

"It's an advance patrol - no more than twenty."

Far above  them they  heard a sharp  clash of rock against  rock, and then,
after a  moment, another.  "I was afraid  of that," Belgarath  said sourly.

"What?" Garion asked.

"They're rolling rocks down on us." The old man grimly hitched up his belt.
"All  right, the  rest of you  go on ahead.  Get down  as fast as  you can.

"Are you  strong enough, father?" Aunt  Pol asked, sounding concerned. "You
still haven't really recovered, you know."

"We're about  to find out," the old man replied, his  face set. "Move - all
of you." He  said it in a tone that cut off  any possible argument. As they
all began  scrambling down over the steep  rocks, Garion lagged farther and
farther behind. Finally, as  Durnik led the last packhorse over a jumble of
broken  stone  and  around  a  bend,  Garion  stopped  entirely  and  stood
listening. He could hear the clatter and slide of hooves on the rocks below
and, from  above, the clash and  bounce of a large  stone tumbling over the
ravine,  coming closer  and  closer. Then  there was  a familiar  surge and
roaring sound.  A rock, somewhat  larger than a man's  head, went whistling
over him,  angling sharply up out of the cut to  fall harmlessly far out on
the tumbled  debris at the floor of  the escarpment. Carefully Garion began
climbing back up the ravine, pausing often to listen.

Belgarath  was sweating  as Garion  came into  sight around  a bend  in the
ravine  a goodly  way above  and ducked  back out  of the old  man's sight.
Another rock,  somewhat larger  than the first, came  bounding and crashing
down the  narrow ravine,  bouncing off the  walls and leaping  into the air
each  time  it  struck  the  rocky  streambed.  About  twenty  yards  above
Belgarath, it  struck solidly and spun  into the air. The  old man gestured
irritably, grunting with the effort, and the rock sailed out in a long arc,
clearing   the   walls  of   the   ravine   and  falling   out  of   sight.

Garion  quickly crossed  the streambed  and went  down several  yards more,
staying close  against the  rocky wall and  peering back to be  sure he was
concealed from his grandfather.

When  the next  rock came  bouncing and  clashing down toward  them, Garion
gathered his  will. He'd have to time it perfectly,  he knew, and he peered
around a  corner, watching the old man  intently. When Belgarath raised his
hand, Garion  pushed his own will  in to join his  grandfather's, hoping to
slip a bit of unnoticed help to him.

Belgarath watched  the rock go whirling far out  over the plain below, then
he turned and looked  sternly down the ravine. "All right, Garion," he said
crisply, "step out where I can see you."

Somewhat sheepishly  Garion went out  into the center of  the streambed and
stood looking up at his grandfather.

"Why  is it  that you can  never do what  you're told  to do?" the  old man
demanded.

"I just thought I could help, that's all."

"Did I ask for help? Do I look like an invalid?"

"There's another rock coming."

"Don't  change the subject.  I think  you're getting above  yourself, young
man."

"Grandfather!"  Garion said  urgently, staring  at the large  rock bounding
down the  ravine directly for the  old man's back. He  threw his will under
the rock and hurled it out of the ravine.

Belgarath looked up at the stone soaring over his head. "Tacky, Garion," he
said disapprovingly, "very tacky.  You don't have to throw them all the way
to Prolgu, you know. Stop trying to show off."

"I got excited," Garion apologized. "I pushed a little too hard."

The old  man grunted. "All right," he said a  bit ungraciously, "as long as
you're here anyway but  stick to your own rocks. I can manage mine, and you
throw   me  off   balance  when   you  come   blundering  in   like  that."

"I just need a little practice, that's all."

"You need  some instruction in etiquette,  too," Belgarath told him, coming
on  down to where  Garion stood. "You  don't just  jump in with  help until
you're asked. That's very bad form, Garion."

"Another rock coming," Garion informed him politely. "Do you want to get it
or shall I?"

"Don't get snippy, young  man," Belgarath told him, then turned and flipped
the approaching rock out of the ravine.

They  moved on  down together, taking  turns on  the rocks the  Murgos were
rolling down the ravine. Garion discovered that it grew easier each time he
did it,  but Belgarath was drenched with sweat by  the time they neared the
bottom. Garion  considered trying once again to  slip his grandfather a bit
of assistance, but the old sorcerer glared at him so fiercely as he started
to   gather   in   his   will  that   he   quickly   abandoned  the   idea.

"I wondered where you'd gone," Aunt Pol said to Garion as the two clambered
out over  the rocks at  the mouth of the  ravine to rejoin the  rest of the
party. She  looked closely  at Belgarath. "Are  you all right?"  she asked.

"I'm just  fine," he snapped. "I had all  this assistance - unsolicited, of
course." He glared at Garion again.

"When we get a bit of time, we're going to have to give him some lessons in
controlling  the  noise," she  observed.  "He sounds  like a  thunderclap."

"That's not  all he has to  learn to control." For  some reason the old man
was behaving as if he'd just been dreadfully insulted.

"What now?"  Barak asked. "Do you want to light  signal fires and wait here
for Hettar and Cho-Hag?"

"This isn't  a good  place, Barak," Silk  pointed out. "Half  of Murgodom's
going to come pouring down that ravine very shortly."

"The  passage   is  not   wide,  Prince  Kheldar,"   Mandorallen  observed.

"My Lord Barak and I can hold it for a week or more if need be."

"You're backsliding again, Mandorallen," Barak told him.

"Besides,  they'd just  roll rocks  down on  you," Silk said.  "And they're
going  to be  dropping boulders off  the edge  up there before  long. We're
probably going to have to get out on the plain a ways to avoid that sort of
thing."

Durnik was  staring thoughtfully  at the mouth  of the ravine.  "We need to
send  something up  there to slow  them down,  though," he mused.  "I don't
think we want them right behind us."

"It's   a  little   hard   to  make   rocks  roll   uphill,"   Barak  said.

"I wasn't  thinking of  rocks," Durnik replied. "We'll  need something much
lighter."

"Like what?" Silk asked the smith.

"Smoke would be good," Durnik answered. "The ravine should draw just like a
chimney. If  we build a fire and fill the  whole thing with smoke, nobody's
going to come down until the fire goes out."

Silk   grinned   broadly.  "Durnik,"   he   said,   "you're  a   treasure."







Chapter Five

THERE WERE  BUSHES, scrub and bramble  for the most part,  growing here and
there along  the base of the cliff, and they  quickly fanned out with their
swords to gather enough to build a large, smoky fire. "You'd better hurry,"
Belgarath called to them  as they worked. "There are a dozen Murgos or more
already halfway down the ravine."

Durnik, who  had been gathering dry sticks and  splintered bits of log, ran
back to  the mouth of the ravine, knelt and  began striking sparks from his
flint into  the tinder he always  carried. In a few  moments he had a small
fire going, the orange  flames licking up around the weathered gray sticks.
Carefully he  added larger pieces  until his fire was  a respectable blaze.
Then he began piling  thornbushes and brambles atop it, critically watching
the direction  of the  smoke. The bushes  hissed and smoldered  fitfully at
first, and  a great cloud of  smoke wafted this way  and that for a moment,
then began to pour steadily up the ravine. Durnik nodded with satisfaction.
"Just  like a chimney,"  he observed. From  far up  the cut came  shouts of
alarm and a great deal of coughing and choking.

"How long  can a man breathe smoke before he  chokes to death?" Silk asked.

"Not very long," Durnik replied.

"I didn't  think so." The little  man looked happily at  the smoking blaze.
"Good fire," he said, holding his hands out to the warmth.

"The smoke's  going to delay them,  but I think it's  time to move on out,"
Belgarath said, squinting at the cloud-obscured ball of the sun hanging low
over the horizon to  the west. "We'll move on up the face of the escarpment
and then make a  run for it. We'll want to surprise them  a bit, to give us
time  to get out  of range before  they start  throwing rocks down  on us."

"Is there  any sign of Hettar  out there?" Barak asked,  peering out at the
grassland.

"We haven't seen any yet," Durnik replied.

"You do  know that  we're going to lead  half of Cthol Murgos  out onto the
plain?" Barak pointed out to Belgarath.

"That can't be helped. For right now, we've got to get out of here. If Taur
Urgas is  up there, he's going  to send people after us,  even if he has to
throw them off the cliff personally. Let's go."

They followed the  face of the cliff for a mile or  more until they found a
spot where  the rockfall  did not extend  so far out onto  the plain. "This
will do,"  Belgarath decided. "As soon  as we get to  level ground, we ride
hard straight  out. An  arrow shot off the  top of that cliff  will carry a
long  way. Is  everybody  ready?" He  looked around  at them.  "Let's move,
then."

They led  their horses  down the short,  steep slope of rock  to the grassy
plain below, mounted quickly and set off at a dead run.

"Arrow!" Silk said sharply,  looking up and back over his shoulder. Garion,
without  thinking, slashed  with his  will at  the tiny speck  arching down
toward them.  In the  same instant he  felt a peculiar  double surge coming
from either  side of  him. The arrow  broke into several  pieces in midair.

"If you  two don't mind!" Belgarath said irritably  to Garion and Aunt Pol,
half reining in his horse.

"I just didn't want you to tire yourself, father," Aunt Pol replied coolly.
"I'm sure Garion feels the same way."

"Couldn't we discuss it later?" Silk suggested, looking apprehensively back
at the towering escarpment.

They  plunged on,  the  long, brown  grass whipping  at  the legs  of their
horses.  Other arrows began  to fall,  dropping farther and  farther behind
them as  they rode. By  the time they were  a half mile out  from the sheer
face,  the  arrows were  sheeting  down  from the  top  of the  cliff in  a
whistling black rain.

"Persistent, aren't they?" Silk observed.

"It's a racial trait,"  Barak replied. "Murgos are stubborn to the point of
idiocy."

"Keep going," Belgarath told them. "It's just a question of time until they
bring up a catapult."

"They're  throwing  ropes down  the  face  of the  cliff," Dumik  reported,
peering  back at  the escarpment.  "As soon  as a  few of  them get  to the
bottom, they'll pull the fire clear of the ravine and start bringing horses
down."

"At least it slowed them down a bit," Belgarath said.

Twilight, hardly more than  a gradual darkening of the cloudy murk that had
obscured  the sky  for  several days,  began to  creep across  the Algarian
plain. They rode on.

Garion glanced  back several times as he  rode and noticed moving pinpoints
of  light along  the  base of  the cliff.  "Some of  them have  reached the
bottom, grandfather,"  he called to the old man,  who was pounding along in
the lead. "I can see their torches."

"It was bound to happen," the sorcerer replied.

It  was nearly  midnight by the  time they  reached the Aldur  River, lying
black and oily-looking between its frosty banks.

"Does anybody have any idea how we're going to find that ford in the dark?"
Durnik asked.

"I'll find it," Relg told him. "It isn't all that dark for me. Wait here."

"That could  give us  a certain advantage,"  Silk noted. "We'll  be able to
ford the  river, but  the Murgos will  flounder around on this  side in the
dark for  half the  night. We'll be  leagues ahead of them  before they get
across."

"That was  one of the things I was sort  of counting on," Belgarath replied
smugly.

It was  a half an hour before Relg returned. "It  isn't far," he told them.

They remounted and rode  through the chill darkness, following the curve of
the river  bank until they heard the unmistakable  gurgle and wash of water
running over stones. "That's it just ahead," Relg said.

"It's still going to  be dangerous fording in the dark," Barak pointed out.

"It isn't  that dark," Relg said.  "Just follow me." He  rode confidently a
hundred yards  farther upriver, then  turned and nudged his  horse into the
shallow rippling water.

Garion felt  his horse  flinch from the icy  chill as he rode  out into the
river,  following  closely behind  Belgarath.  Behind him  he heard  Durnik
coaxing the now-unburdened pack animals into the water.

The river was not deep, but it was very wide - almost a half mileand in the
process of fording, they were all soaked to the knees.

"The  rest  of  the  night  promises  to be  moderately  unpleasant,"  Silk
observed, shaking one sodden foot.

"At least you've got  the river between you and Taur Urgas," Barak reminded
him.

"That does brighten things up a bit," Silk admitted.

They had  not gone a half mile,  however, before Mandorallen's charger went
down with  a squeal of agony. The knight, with  a great clatter, tumbled in
the grass  as he was pitched out of the  saddle. His great horse floundered
with threshing legs, trying futilely to rise.

"What's the matter with him?" Barak demanded sharply.

Behind them, with another squeal, one of the packhorses collapsed. "What is
it?" Garion asked Durnik, his voice shrill.

"It's  the cold," Durnik  answered, swinging  down from his  saddle. "We've
ridden them to exhaustion, and then we made them wade across the river. The
chill's settled into their muscles."

"What do we do?"

"We have to rub them down - all of them - with wool."

"We don't have time for that," Silk objected.

"It's that or walk,"  Durnik declared, pulling off his stout wool cloak and
beginning to rub vigorously at his horse's legs with it.

"Maybe  we should  build a  fire," Garion  suggested, also  dismounting and
beginning to rub down his horse's shivering legs.

"There isn't  anything around here to burn," Durnik  told him. "This is all
open grassland."

"And a fire would  set up a beacon for every Murgo within ten miles," Barak
added, massaging the legs of his gray horse.

They all  worked as rapidly as possible, but the sky  to the east had begun
to pale with the  first hints of dawn before Mandorallen's horse was on his
feet   again  and   the   rest  of   their  mounts   were  able   to  move.

"They won't  be able to run," Durnik  declared somberly. "We shouldn't even
ride them."

"Durnik,"   Silk   protested,   "Taur    Urgas   is   right   behind   us."

"They  won't last  a league  if we try  to make  them run," the  smith said
stubbornly. "There's nothing left in them."

They rode  away from the river  at a walk. Even  at that pace, Garion could
feel the trembling of his horse under him. They all looked back frequently,
watching the dark-shrouded plain beyond the river as the sky grew gradually
lighter. When they reached  the top of the first low hills, the deep shadow
which had  obscured the grasslands behind them faded  and they were able to
see movement. Then, as  the light grew stronger, they saw an army of Murgos
swarming toward  the river.  In the midst  of them were  the flapping black
banners of Taur Urgas himself.

The Murgos  came on in waves until they reached the  far bank of the river.
Then their mounted scouts  ranged out until they located the ford. The bulk
of the army Taur Urgas had brought down to the plain was still on foot, but
clusters of  horses were being driven  up from the rear  as rapidly as they
could  be  brought  down  the  narrow  cut  leading  from the  top  of  the
escarpment.

As  the  first  units  began splashing  across  the  ford,  Silk turned  to
Belgarath. "Now what?" the little man asked in a worried voice.

"We'd better  get off the top of this hill," the  old man replied. "I don't
think they've  seen us yet, but it's just a  question of time, I'm afraid."
They rode down into a little swale just beyond the hill. The overcast which
had obscured the  sky for the past week or more had  begun to blow off, and
broad patches of pale, icy blue had begun to appear, though the sun had not
yet come up.

"My guess is that he's going to hold the bulk of his army on the far side,"
Belgarath told  them after  they had all  dismounted. "He'll bring  them on
across as their horses  catch up. As soon as they get to this side, they're
going to spread out to look for us."

"That's the way I'd do it," Barak agreed.

"Somebody ought to keep  an eye on them," Durnik suggested. He started back
up  the hill  on  foot. "I'll  let you  know if  they start  doing anything
unusual."

Belgarath seemed  lost in thought. He paced up  and down, his hands clasped
together behind his back and an angry look on his face. "This isn't working
out the way I'd expected," he said finally. "I hadn't counted on the horses
playing out on us."

"Is there any place we can hide?" Barak asked.

Belgarath  shook his  head.  "This is  all grassland,"  he  replied. "There
aren't  any rocks or  caves or trees,  and it's  going to be  impossible to
cover our tracks." He kicked at the tall grass. "This isn't turning out too
well," he admitted glumly.  "We're all alone out here on exhausted horses."
He chewed thoughtfully at  his lower lip. "The nearest help is in the Vale.
I  think we'd  better  turn south  and make  for  it. We're  fairly close."

"How close?" Silk asked.

"Ten leagues or so."

"That's  going to  take all day,  Belgarath. I  don't think we've  got that
long."

"We might  have to tamper with  the weather a bit,"  Belgarath conceded. "I
don't  like doing  that,  but I  might not  have any  choice." There  was a
distant low rumble somewhere off to the north. The little boy looked up and
smiled at Aunt Pol. "Errand?" he asked.

"Yes, dear," she replied absently.

"Can  you pick  up any traces  of Algars  in the vicinity,  Pol?" Belgarath
asked her.

She  shook her  head. "I  think I'm too  close to  the Orb, father.  I keep
getting an echo that blots things out more than a mile or so away."

"It always has been noisy," he grunted sourly.

"Talk to it, father," she suggested. "Maybe it will listen to you."

He gave her a long, hard look - a look she returned quite calmly. "I can do
without   that,   miss,"  he   told   her   finally  in   a  crisp   voice.

There was  another low  rumble, from the  south this time.  "Thunder?" Silk
said,  looking a  bit puzzled.  "Isn't this  an odd  time of year  for it?"

"This plain breeds peculiar weather," Belgarath said. "There isn't anything
between here and Drasnia but eight hundred leagues of grass."

"Do we try for the Vale then?" Barak asked.

"It looks as if we'll have to," the old man replied.

Durnik  came back  down  the hill.  "They're coming  across the  river," he
reported, "but  they aren't spreading out yet. It looks  as if they want to
get more men across before they start looking for us."

"How hard  can we  push the horses  without hurting them?"  Silk asked him.

"Not  very," Durnik  replied. "It  would be  better to  save them  until we
absolutely have  to use up whatever  they've got left. If  we walk and lead
them for an hour  or so, we might be able to get a canter out of them - for
short periods of time."

"Let's go along the back side of the crest," Belgarath said, picking up the
reins of  his horse. "We'll stay  pretty much out of  sight that way, but I
want to keep an  eye on Taur Urgas." He led them at an angle back up out of
the swale.

The clouds  had broken even more now, and the  tatters raced in the endless
winds that  swept the  vast grassland. To  the east, the sky  was turning a
pale pink. Although the Algarian plain did not have that bitter, arid chill
that had  cut at them in the uplands of Cthol  Murgos and Mishrak ac Thull,
it was still very cold. Garion shivered, drew his cloak in tight about him,
and kept walking, trailing his weary horse behind him.

There was  another brief rumble, and the little  boy, perched in the saddle
of Aunt Pol's horse laughed. "Errand," he announced.

"I wish he'd stop that," Silk said irritably.

They glanced  from time  to time over  the crest of  the long  hill as they
walked. Below,  in the broad valley of the Aldur  River, the Murgos of Taur
Urgas were fording in larger and larger groups. It appeared that fully half
his army  had reached the west bank by now, and  the red and black standard
of  the  king of  the  Murgos  stood planted  defiantly  on Algarian  soil.

"If he  brings too  many more men  down the escarpment, it's  going to take
something pretty significant to dislodge him," Barak rumbled, scowling down
at the Murgos.

"I  know," Belgarath  replied,  "and that's  the one  thing I've  wanted to
avoid. We aren't ready for a war just yet."

The  sun,  huge and  red,  ponderously  moved up  from  behind the  eastern
escarpment, turning  the sky  around it rosy. In  the still-shadowed valley
below them,  the Murgos continued to splash across  the river in the steely
morning light.

"Methinks  he will  await  the sun  before he  begins  the search  for us,"
Mandorallen observed.

"And that's not very  far off," Barak agreed, glancing at the slowly moving
band  of sunlight  just touching  the hill  along which they  moved. "We've
probably got  half an hour at  the most. I think  it's getting to the point
where  we're going  to have  to gamble  on the  horses. Maybe if  we switch
mounts  every mile  or  so, we  can get  some more  distance out  of them."

The rumble that came  then could not possibly have been thunder. The ground
shook with  it, and it rolled  on and on endlessly  from both the north and
south.

And then,  pouring over the crests  of the hills surrounding  the valley of
the Aldur like some vast tide suddenly released by the bursting of a mighty
dam,  came the  clans of the  Algars. Down  they plunged upon  the startled
Murgos thickly clustered along  the banks of the river, and their great war
cry shook  the very heavens as they fell like  wolves upon the divided army
of Taur Urgas.

A  lone horseman  veered  out of  the great  charge of  the clans  and came
pounding up the hillside toward Garion and his friends. As the warrior drew
closer, Garion  could see  his long scalp  lock flowing behind  him and his
drawn sabre  catching the first rays  of the morning sun.  It was Hettar. A
vast surge of relief swept over Garion. They were safe.

"Where have  you been?" Barak demanded  in a great voice  as the hawk-faced
Algar rode closer.

"Watching," Hettar  replied calmly as he  reined in. "We wanted  to let the
Murgos get  out a  ways from the  escarpment so we  could cut  them off. My
father sent me to see how you all are."

"How considerate," Silk observed sardonically. "Did it ever occur to you to
let us know you were out there?"

Hettar  shrugged.  "We  could  see that  you  were  all  right." He  looked
critically at  their exhausted mounts.  "You didn't take very  good care of
them," he said accusingly.

"We were a bit pressed," Durnik apologized.

"Did you get the Orb?" the tall man asked Belgarath, glancing hungrily down
toward the river where a vast battle had been joined.

"It   took  a   bit,   but  we   got   it,"  the   old  sorcerer   replied.

"Good." Hettar turned his horse, and his lean face had a fierce look on it.
"I'll tell Cho-Hag. Will  you excuse me?" Then he stopped as if remembering
something.  "Oh,"  he  said   to  Barak,  "congratulations,  by  the  way."

"For what?" the big man asked, looking puzzled.

"The birth of your son."

"What?" Barak sounded stunned. "How?"

"In the usual way, I'd imagine," Hettar replied.

"I mean how did you find out?"

"Anheg sent word to us."

"When was he born?"

"A couple months ago." Hettar looked nervously down at the battle which was
raging on both sides of the river and in the middle of the ford as well. "I
really have  to go," he said. "If I don't hurry,  there won't be any Murgos
left." And he drove  his heels into his horse's flanks and plunged down the
hill.

"He hasn't changed a bit," Silk noted.

Barak  was standing  with a  somewhat foolish  grin on his  big, redbearded
face.

"Congratulations,  my Lord,"  Mandorallen said  to him, clasping  his hand.

Barak's grin grew broader.

It quickly became obvious  that the situation of the encircled Murgos below
was hopeless. With his  army cut in two by the river, Taur Urgas was unable
to  mount even  an orderly retreat.  The forces  he had brought  across the
river were  quickly swarmed  under by King Cho-Hag's  superior numbers, and
the few  survivors of that short,  ugly mele plunged back  into the river,
protectively drawn  up around the red  and black banner of  the Murgo king.
Even in  the ford, however,  the Algar warriors pressed  him. Some distance
upriver Garion could see horsemen plunging into the icy water to be carried
down by  the current to  the shallows of the  ford in an effort  to cut off
escape. Much of the  fight in the river was obscured by the sheets of spray
kicked  up  by  struggling  horses,  but  the  bodies  floating  downstream
testified to the savagery of the clash.

Briefly, for no more  than a moment, the red and black banner of Taur Urgas
was confronted by the  burgundy-and-white horse-banner of King Cho-Hag, and
then the two were swept apart.

"That could have been an interesting meeting," Silk noted. "ChoHag and Taur
Urgas have hated each other for years."

Once the king of  the Murgos regained the east bank, he rallied what forces
he  could, turned,  and  fled back  across  the open  grassland toward  the
escarpment  with Algar  clansmen hotly  pursuing him.  For the bulk  of his
army,  however,  there  was  no escape.  Since  their  horses  had not  yet
descended  the narrow  ravine  from the  top of  the escarpment,  they were
forced to  fight on foot. The Algars swept down  upon them in waves, sabres
flashing  in  the morning  sun.  Faintly,  Garion could  hear the  screams.
Sickened finally, he turned away, unable to watch the slaughter any longer.

The little  boy, who  was standing close  beside Aunt Pol with  his hand in
hers, looked  at Garion gravely.  "Errand," he said with  a sad conviction.

By midmorning  the battle was over. The last of the  Murgos on the far bank
of the river had  been destroyed, and Taur Urgas had fled with the tattered
remnants  of his  army  back up  the ravine.  "Good fight,"  Barak observed
professionally,  looking down  at the  bodies littering  both banks  of the
river  and  bobbing  limply  in  the  shallows downstream  from  the  ford.

"The tactics of thy Algar cousins were masterly," Mandorallen agreed. "Taur
Urgas  will take some  time to  recover from this  morning's chastisement."

"I'd give a great deal to see the look on his face just now." Silk laughed.
"He's probably frothing at the mouth."

King  Cho-Hag,   dressed  in  steel-plated  black   leather  and  with  his
horse-banner  streaming  triumphantly  in  the  bright  morning  sun,  came
galloping up the hill toward them, closely surrounded by the members of his
personal  guard.   "Interesting  morning,"  he  said   with  typical  Algar
understatement as  he reined in.  "Thanks for bringing us  so many Murgos."

"He's as bad as Hettar," Silk observed to Barak.

The king  of the  Algars grinned openly  as he slowly  dismounted. His weak
legs seemed almost to buckle as he carefully put his weight on them, and he
held  onto his saddle  for support. "How  did things  go in Rak  Cthol?" he
asked.

"It wound up being rather noisy," Belgarath replied.

"Did you find Ctuchik in good health?"

"Moderately.  We  corrected that,  however.  The  whole affair  set off  an
earthquake.  Most  of Rak  Cthol  slid  off its  mountaintop, I'm  afraid."

Cho-Hag grinned again. "What a shame."

"Where's Hettar?" Barak asked.

"Chasing  Murgos, I imagine,"  Cho-Hag replied.  "Their rear guard  got cut
off, and they're out there trying to find someplace to hide."

"There  aren't very  many hiding  places on  this plain, are  there?" Barak
asked.

"Almost none at all," the Algar king agreed pleasantly.

A  dozen or  so Algar  wagons crested  a nearby  hill, rolling  toward them
through the tall, brown  grass. They were square-boxed conveyances, looking
not unlike  houses on wheels. They had roofs,  narrow windows, and steps at
the rear  leading up to the  doorway on the back  of each wagon. It looked,
Garion   thought,  almost   like   a  moving   city  as   they  approached.

"I imagine Hettar's going to be a while," Cho-Hag noted. "Why don't we have
a  bit of  lunch? I'd  like to get  word to  Anheg and Rhodar  about what's
happened here  as soon as possible, but I'm sure you'll  want to pass a few
things along as well. We can talk while we eat."

Several of the wagons were drawn up close together and their sides were let
down  and joined to  form a  spacious, low-ceilinged dining  hall. Braziers
provided  warmth,  and  candles illuminated  the  interior  of the  quickly
assembled  hall,  supplementing the  bright  winter  sunlight streaming  in
through the windows.

They dined  on roasted meat and  mellow ale. Garion soon  found that he was
wearing  far too  many  clothes. It  seemed that  he had  not been  warm in
months, and the glowing  braziers shimmered out a welcome heat. Although he
was tired and very  dirty, he felt warm and safe, and he soon found himself
nodding over his plate, almost drowsing as Belgarath recounted the story of
their escape to the Algar king.

Gradually, however,  as the old man  spoke, something alerted Garion. There
was, it  seemed, a trace too much vivacity  in his grandfather's voice, and
Belgarath's words  sometimes seemed  almost to tumble over  each other. His
blue  eyes  were very  bright,  but  seemed occasionally  a bit  unfocused.

"So Zedar  got away," Cho-Hag was saying. "That's  the only thing that mars
the whole affair."

"Zedar's no  problem," Belgarath replied, smiling  in a slightly dazed way.

His voice seemed strange, uncertain, and King Cho-Hag looked at the old man
curiously. "You've had a busy year, Belgarath," he said.

"A good one, though." The sorcerer smiled again and lifted his ale cup. His
hand  was  trembling  violently,  and  he  stared at  it  in  astonishment.

"Aunt Pol!" Garion called urgently.

"Are you all right, father?"

"Fine, Pol,  perfectly fine." He smiled vaguely  at her, his unfocused eyes
blinking owlishly.  He rose suddenly to  his feet and began  to move toward
her,  but his  steps were  lurching, almost  staggering. And then  his eyes
rolled back  in his  head and he  fell to the  floor like  a pole-axed cow.

"Father!" Aunt Pol exclaimed, leaping to his side.

Garion, moving  almost as fast as his Aunt, knelt on  the other side of the
unconscious old man. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded. But Aunt Pol did
not answer.  Her hands were at Belgarath's wrist  and brow, feeling for his
pulse.  She peeled  back one of  his eyelids  and stared intently  into his
blank,  unseeing eyes.  "Durnik!" she  snapped. "Get  my herb-bag-quickly!"

The smith bolted for the door.

King Cho-Hag had half risen, his face deathly pale. "He isn't-"

"No,"   she   answered   tensely.    "He's   alive,   but   only   barely."

"Is something attacking him?"  Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly,
his hand unconsciously on his dagger.

"No. It's  nothing like that." Aunt Pol's hands had  moved to the old man's
chest. "I should have known," she berated herself. "The stubborn, proud old
fool! I should have been watching him."

"Please,  Aunt Pol,"  Garion begged  desperately, "what's wrong  with him?"

"He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik," she replied. "He's
been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine -
but he wouldn't quit.  Now he's burned up all his vital energy and will. He
barely has enough strength left to keep breathing."

Garion had  lifted his grandfather's head and cradled  it on his lap. "Help
me, Garion!"

He knew  instinctively what she wanted.  He gathered his will  and held out
his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of
him.

Her  eyes  were very  wide  as she  intently  watched the  old man's  face.
"Again!" And  once more  she pulled the  quickly gathered will  out of him.

"What are we doing?" Garion's voice was shrill.

"Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe-" She glanced toward the
door. "Hurry, Durnik!" she shouted.

Durnik rushed back into the wagon.

"Open  the bag,"  she instructed,  "and give  me that  black jar -  the one
that's sealed with lead - and a pair of iron tongs."

"Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?" the smith asked.

"No. Just break the seal - carefully. And give me a glove - leather, if you
can find one."

Wordlessly, Silk  pulled a leather gauntlet from  under his belt and handed
it to her. She  pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with
the tongs.  With great care, she removed  a single dark, oily-looking green
leaf.  She  held it  very  carefully in  the  tongs. "Pry  his mouth  open,
Garion," she ordered.

Garion wedged his fingers  between Belgarath's clenched teeth and carefully
pried the  old man's  jaws apart. Aunt  Pol pulled down  her father's lower
lip, reached inside his  mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his
tongue with it, once and once only.

Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly scraped on the floor. His
muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about.

"Hold him  down," Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled  back sharply and held the
leaf  out of the  way while Mandorallen  and Barak  jumped in to  hold down
Belgarath's convulsing body. "Give me a bowl," she ordered. "A wooden one."

Durnik  handed her one,  and she deposited  the leaf  and the tongs  in it.
Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf.
"Take  this," she  told the  smith. "Don't  touch any  part of  the glove."

"What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?"

"Take it out and burn it - bowl and all - and don't let anyone get into the
smoke from it."

"Is it that dangerous?" Silk asked.

"It's even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here."

Durnik swallowed  very hard and left  the wagon, holding the  bowl as if it
were a live snake.

Polgara took  a small  mortar and pestle  and began grinding  certain herbs
from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. "How far
is   it  to   the  Stronghold,   Cho-Hag?"  she   asked  the   Algar  king.

"A man on a good horse could make it in half a day," he replied.

"How long by wagon-a wagon driven carefully to avoid bouncing?"

"Two days."

She frowned,  still mixing the herbs in the  mortar. "All right, there's no
help for it, I  guess. Please send Hettar to Queen Silar. Have him tell her
that I'm going to  need a warm, well-lighted chamber with a good bed and no
drafts. Durnik, I want  you to drive the wagon. Don't hit any bumps even if
it means losing an hour."

The smith nodded.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Barak asked, his voice strained and
his face shocked by Belgarath's sudden collapse.

"It's really  too early  to say," she  replied. "He's been on  the point of
collapse for days maybe.  But he wouldn't let himself go. I think he's past
this crisis,  but there may be  others." She laid one  hand on her father's
chest. "Put him in  bed carefully. Then I want a screen of some kind around
the  bed -  blankets will do.  We have to  keep him  very quiet and  out of
drafts. No loud noises."

They  all stared  at  her as  the significance  of her  extreme precautions
struck them.

"Move, gentlemen," she told  them firmly. "His life may depend on a certain
speed."





Chapter Six

THE WAGON  SEEMED barely to crawl. The high, thin  cloud had swept in again
to hide  the sun, and a  kind of leaden chill  descended on the featureless
plain of  southern Algaria. Garion rode  inside the wagon, thick-headed and
numb with  exhaustion, watching  with dreadful concern as  Aunt Pol hovered
over  the unconscious  Belgarath. Sleep  was out  of the  question. Another
crisis could arise at  any time and he had to be ready  to leap to her aid,
joining his  will and the power of his amulet  with hers. Errand, his small
face grave, sat quietly  in a chair at the far side of the wagon, his hands
firmly clasped around the  pouch Durnik had made for hirn. The sound of the
Orb still  hung in Garion's ears, muted but  continual. He had grown almost
accustomed to  the song in the weeks since they had  left Rak Cthol; but at
quiet moments or when he was tired, it always seemed to return with renewed
strength. It was somehow a comforting sound.

Aunt Pol leaned forward  to touch Belgarath's chest. "What's wrong?" Garion
asked in a sharp whisper.

"Nothing's wrong,  Garion," she  replied calmly. "Please  don't keep saying
that every  time I so much  as move. If something's  wrong, I'll tell you."

"I'm sorry - I'm just worried, that's all."

She turned to give  him a steady look. "Why don't you take Errand and go up
and ride on top of the wagon with Silk and Durnik?"

"What if you need me?"

"I'll call you, dear."

"I'd really rather stay, Aunt Pol."

"I'd really rather you didn't. I'll call if I need you."

"But "

"Now, Garion."

Garion knew  better than to argue. He took Errand out  the back door of the
wagon and up the steps to the top.

"How is he?" Silk asked.

"How should  I know? All I know is that she  chased me out." Garion's reply
was a bit surly.

"That might be a good sign, you know."

"Maybe." Garion  looked around.  Off to the  west there was a  range of low
hills. Rearing above them stood a vast pile of rock.

"The Algar Stronghold," Durnik told Garion, pointing.

"Are we that close?"

"That's still a good day's ride."

"How high is it?" Garion asked.

"Four or five hundred  feet at least," Silk told him. "The Algars have been
building at  it for several thousand  years. It gives them  something to do
after the calving season."

Barak   rode   up.  "How's   Belgarath?"   he  asked   as  he   approached.

"I think  he might be improving  just a little," Garion  answered. "I don't
know for sure, though."

"That's something, anyway." The  big man pointed toward a gully just ahead.
"You'd better  go around that," he told Durnik.  "King ChoHag says that the
ground gets a bit rough through there."

Durnik nodded and changed the wagon's direction.

Throughout the  day, the Stronghold of the  Algars loomed higher and higher
against the  western horizon. It was a  vast, towering fortress rearing out
of the dun-colored hills.

"A monument  to an idea that got out of hand,"  Silk observed as he lounged
idly atop the wagon.

"I don't quite follow that," Durnik said.

"Algars are  nomads," the little  man explained. "They live  in wagons like
this  one  and  follow  their herds.  The  Stronghold  gives Murgo  raiders
something to attack. That's  its only real purpose. Very practical, really.
It's much  easier than looking for  them all over these  plains. The Murgos
always  come  here,  and  it's  a  convenient  place  to  wipe  them  out."

"Don't the Murgos realize that?" Durnik looked a bit skeptical.

"Quite possibly,  but they come  here anyway because they  can't resist the
place. They  simply can't accept  the fact that nobody  really lives here."
Silk grinned his ferretlike little grin. "You know how stubborn Murgos are.
Anyway,  over  the  years   the  Algar  clans  have  developed  a  sort  of
competition. Every year they  try to outdo one another in hauling rock, and
the Stronghold keeps growing higher and higher."

"Did Kal  Torak really lay siege to it for  eight years?" Garion asked him.

Silk nodded.  "They say  that his army  was like a sea  of Angaraks dashing
itself to  pieces against the walls of the  Stronghold. They might still be
here, but  they ran out of food. That's always  been the problem with large
armies.  Any fool  can raise an  army, but  you start running  into trouble
around suppertime."

As  they approached  the man-made  mountain, the  gates opened and  a party
emerged to greet them. In the lead on a white palfrey rode Queen Silar with
Hettar  close behind.  At  a certain  point they  stopped and  sat waiting.

Garion lifted a small  trapdoor in the roof of the wagon. "We're here, Aunt
Pol," he reported in a hushed voice.

"Good," she replied.

"How's grandfather?"

"He's sleeping. His breathing  seems a bit stronger. Go ask Cho-Hag to take
us inside  immediately. I  want to get  father into a  warm bed  as soon as
possible."

"Yes, Aunt  Pol." Garion lowered the trapdoor and  then went down the steps
at the  rear of the slowly  moving wagon. He untied  his horse, mounted and
rode to the front  of the column where the Algar queen was quietly greeting
her husband.

"Excuse me," he said  respectfully, swinging down from his horse, "but Aunt
Pol wants to get Belgarath inside at once."

"How is he?" Hettar asked.

"Aunt  Pol says  that  his breathing's  getting stronger,  but  she's still
worried."

From the rear of  the group that had emerged from the Stronghold, there was
a flurry  of small hooves. The  colt that had been  born in the hills above
Maragor  burst  into  view  and  came  charging directly  at  them.  Garion
immediately found himself swarmed  under by the colt's exuberant greetings.
The small  horse nuzzled him and butted at him  with its head, then pranced
away only  to gallop back again.  When Garion put his  hand on the animal's
neck   to  calm   him,   the  colt   quivered  with   joy  at   his  touch.

"He's been waiting for you," Hettar said to Garion. "He seems to have known
you were coming."

The wagon  drew up and stopped.  The door opened, and  Aunt Pol looked out.

"Everything's ready, Polgara," Queen Silar told her.

"Thank you, Silar."

"Is he recovering at all?"

"He  seems better,  but  it's very  hard to  say for  sure at  this point."
Errand, who had been watching from the top of the wagon, suddenly clambered
down the  steps at  the rear, hopped to  the ground, and ran  out along the
legs of the horses.

"Catch him, Garion," Aunt  Pol said. "I think he'd better ride in here with
me until we get inside the Stronghold."

As  Garion started  after  the little  boy,  the colt  scampered away,  and
Errand,  laughing  with delight,  ran  after him.  "Errand!" Garion  called
sharply. The colt, however,  had turned in midgallop and suddenly bore down
on  the child,  his  hooves flailing  wildly. Errand,  showing no  signs of
alarm,  stood smiling  directly  in its  path. Startled,  the  little horse
stiffened his  legs and skidded to a stop. Errand  laughed and held out his
hand. The  colt's eyes were wide  as he sniffed curiously  at the hand, and
then the boy touched the small animal's face.

Again within  the vaults  of his mind  Garion seemed to  hear that strange,
bell-like note, and the dry voice murmured, "Dome," with a peculiar sort of
satisfaction.

"What's that  supposed to  mean?" Garion asked  silently, but there  was no
answer.  He shrugged  and picked  Errand up  to avoid any  chance collision
between horse  and child.  The colt stood  staring at the two  of them, its
eyes wide  as if in amazement;  when Garion turned to  carry Errand back to
the wagon,  it trotted alongside, sniffing and  even nuzzling at the child.
Garion wordlessly  handed Errand up to Aunt Pol and  looked her full in the
face. She  said nothing as she took the child,  but her expression told him
plainly that something very important had just happened.

As he  turned to remount his horse, he felt  that someone was watching him,
and he turned quickly toward the group of riders that had accompanied Queen
Silar from the Stronghold. Just behind the queen was a tall girl mounted on
a roan horse. She  had long, dark brown hair, and the eyes she had fixed on
Garion were gray, calm,  and very serious. Her horse pranced nervously, and
she calmed  him with a quiet  word and a gentle  touch, then turned to gaze
openly at  Garion again. He had the peculiar feeling  that he ought to know
her.

The wagon creaked as Durnik shook the reins to start the team, and they all
followed  King Cho-Hag  and  Queen Silar  through  a narrow  gate into  the
Stronghold. Garion saw immediately  that there were no buildings inside the
towering fortress.  Instead there was a maze  of stone walls perhaps twenty
feet  high   twisting  this  way  and   that  without  any  apparent  plan.

"But  where is thy  city, your  Majesty?" Mandorallen asked  in perplexity.

"Inside the walls themselves,"  King Cho-Hag replied. "They're thick enough
and  high  enough  to  give  us  all  the  room we  could  possibly  need."

"What purpose hath all this, then?"

"It's  just a  trap."  The king  shrugged.  "We permit  attackers to  break
through the gates,  and then we deal with them in here.  We want to go this
way." He led them along a narrow alleyway.

They  dismounted in  a  courtyard beside  the vast  wall. Barak  and Hettar
unhooked the  latches and  swung the side  of the wagon  down. Barak tugged
thoughtfully at his beard as he looked at the sleeping Belgarath. "It would
probably  disturb him  less if  we just  took him  inside bed and  all," he
suggested.

"Right," Hettar  agreed, and the two  of them climbed up  into the wagon to
lift out the sorcerer's bed.

"Just don't  bounce him  around," Polgara cautioned. "And  don't drop him."

"We've got him, Polgara,"  Barak assured her. "I know you might not believe
it, but we're almost as concerned about him as you are."

With  the two  big  men carrying  the bed,  they  passed through  an arched
doorway into a wide, torch-lighted corridor and up a flight of stairs, then
along another hallway to another flight.

"Is it much farther?" Barak asked. Sweat was running down his face into his
beard. "This bed isn't getting any lighter, you know."

"Just up here," the Algar Queen told him.

"I hope he appreciates all this when he wakes up," Barak grumbled. The room
to which they carried Belgarath was large and airy. A glowing brazier stood
in each  corner and a broad window overlooked the  maze inside the walls of
the Stronghold.  A canopied bed stood  against one wall and  a large wooden
tub against the other.

"This  will be just  fine," Polgara  said approvingly. "Thank  you, Silar."

"We love him too, Polgara," Queen Silar replied quietly.

Polgara  drew the  drapes,  darkening the  room. Then  she turned  back the
covers, and Belgarath was  transferred to the canopied bed so smoothly that
he did not even stir.

"He looks a little better," Silk said.

"He needs sleep, rest and quiet more than anything right now," Polgara told
him, her eyes intent on the old man's sleeping face.

"We'll leave  you with him, Polgara,"  Queen Silar said. She  turned to the
rest of  them. "Why don't we all go down to  the main hall? Supper's nearly
ready,   but   in  the   meantime   I'll   have  some   ale  brought   in."

Barak's  eyes  brightened  noticeably,  and  he started  toward  the  door.
"Barak,"  Polgara  called  to   him,  "aren't  you  and  Hettar  forgetting
something?" She looked pointedly  at the bed they had used for a stretcher.

Barak sighed. He and Hettar picked up the bed again.

"I'll send some supper up for you, Polgara," the queen said.

"Thank you, Silar." Aunt  Pol turned to Garion, her eyes grave. "Stay for a
few moments,  dear," she asked, and  he remained as the  others all quietly
left.

"Close the door, Garion,"  she said, pulling a chair up beside the sleeping
old man's bed.

He shut  the door and crossed  the room back to  her. "Is he really getting
better, Aunt Pol?"

She nodded.  "I think  we're past the  immediate danger. He  seems stronger
physically. But it's not  his physical body I'm worried aboutit's his mind.
That's why I wanted to talk to you alone."

Garion felt a sudden cold grip of fear. "His mind?"

"Keep your  voice down, dear," she  told him quietly. "This  has to be kept
strictly between us." Her  eyes were still on Belgarath's face. "An episode
like this can have  very serious effects, and there's no way to know how it
will be  with him when he  recovers. He could be  very seriously weakened."

"Weakened? How?"

"His  will could  be greatly  reduced - to  that of  any other old  man. He
drained it to the  utter limit, and he might have gone so far that he could
never regain his powers."

"You mean he wouldn't be a sorcerer any more?"

"Don't  repeat the obvious,  Garion," she  said wearily. "If  that happens,
it's  going to  be up  to you  and me  to conceal  it from  everybody. Your
grandfather's power  is the one thing  that has held the  Angaraks in check
for all these years.  If something has happened to that power, then you and
I will  have to make it  look as if he's  the same as he  always was. We'll
have  to   conceal  the  truth  even  from   him,  if  that  is  possible."

"What can we do without him?"

"We'd go on, Garion,"  she replied quietly, looking directly into his eyes.
"Our task  is too  important for us  to falter because  a man  falls by the
wayside -  even if  that man happens  to be your  grandfather. We're racing
against time  in all this, Garion. We  absolutely must fulfill the Prophecy
and get the Orb  back to Riva by Erastide, and there are people who must be
gathered up to go with us."

"Who?"

"Princess Ce'Nedra, for one."

"Ce'Nedra?" Garion  had never really forgotten  the little princess, but he
failed to see why  Aunt Pol was making such an issue of her going with them
to Riva.

"In time you'll understand, dear. All of this is part of a series of events
that  must  occur in  proper  sequence  and at  the  proper  time. In  most
situations, the present is determined by the past. This series of events is
different,  however.  In this  case,  what's  happening in  the present  is
determined by the future.  If we don't get it exactly the way it's supposed
to be, the ending will be different, and I don't think any of us would like
that at all."

"What do  you want me to do?" he  asked, placing himself unquestioningly in
her hands.

She smiled  gratefully at him. "Thank you,  Garion," she said simply. "When
you rejoin the others,  they're going to ask you how father's coming along,
and  I want  you to put  on your best  face and  tell them that  he's doing
fine."

"You   want  me   to  lie   to  them."   It  was   not  even   a  question.

"No place in the world is safe from spies, Garion. You know that as well as
I, and no matter  what happens, we can't let any hint that father might not
recover fully get back to the Angaraks. If necessary, you'll lie until your
tongue turns black. The whole fate of the West could depend on how well you
do it."

He stared at her.

"It's possible  that all  this is totally unnecessary,"  she reassured him.
"He may be exactly the same as always after he's had a week or two of rest,
but we've got to be ready to move smoothly, just in case he's not."

"Can't we do something?"

"We're doing  all we  can. Go back to  the others now, Garion  - and smile.
Smile until your jaws ache if you have to."

There was  a faint  sound in the corner  of the room, and  they both turned
sharply.  Errand,  his  blue   eyes  very  serious,  stood  watching  them.

"Take him  with you," Aunt Pol  said. "See that he eats  and keep an eye on
him."

Garion nodded  and beckoned to the child.  Errand smiled his trusting smile
and crossed the room. He reached out and patted the unconscious Belgarath's
hand, then turned to follow Garion from the room.

The tall, brown-haired girl who had accompanied Queen Silar out through the
gates of  the Stronghold  was waiting for  him in the  corndor outside. Her
skin, Garion noticed, was  very pale, almost translucent, and her gray eyes
were  direct.   "Is  the  Eternal  Man   really  any  better?"  she  asked.

"Much  better," Garion  replied with  all the  confidence he  could muster.
"He'll be out of bed in no time at all."

"He seems so weak," she said. "So old and frail."

"Frail? Belgarath?"  Garion forced a laugh. "He's made  out of old iron and
horseshoe nails."

"He is seven thousand years old, after all."

"That  doesn't mean  anything to  him. He  stopped paying attention  to the
years a long time ago."

"You're Garion, aren't you?" she asked. "Queen Silar told us about you when
she returned  from Val Alorn last year. For some  reason I thought you were
younger."

"I  was  then,"  Garion   replied.  "I've  aged  a  bit  this  last  year."

"My name is Adara," the tall girl introduced herself. "Queen Silar asked me
to  show you  the  way to  the main  hall.  Supper should  be  ready soon."

Garion inclined his head politely. In spite of the worry gnawing at him, he
could not shake off  the peculiar feeling that he ought to know this quiet,
beautiful girl. Errand reached  out and took the girl's hand, and the three
of   them   passed  hand   in   hand  down   the  torch-lighted   corridor.

King Cho-Hag's  main hall was on a lower floor. It  was a long, narrow room
where  chairs and  padded benches  sat in  little clusters  around braziers
filled with  glowing coals. Barak, holding a large  ale tankard in one huge
fist, was describing with  some embellishment their descent from the top of
the escarpment.

"We didn't really have  any choice, you see," the big man was saying. "Taur
Urgas had  been frothing on our heels for several days,  and we had to take
the shortest way down."

Hettar nodded. "Plans sometimes  have a way of changing when the unexpected
crops up,"  he agreed. "That's why we put men  to watching every known pass
down from the top of the escarpment."

"I still think you  might have let us know you were there." Barak sounded a
little injured.

Hettar grinned  wolfishly. "We couldn't really  take the chance, Barak," he
explained. "The  Murgos might have seen us, and  we didn't want to frighten
them off.  It would have been a shame if  they'd gotten away, wouldn't it?"

"Is that all you ever think about?"

Hettar  considered  the  question  for a  moment.  "Pretty  much, yes,"  he
admitted.

Supper was announced then,  and they all moved to the long table at the far
end of the hall.  The general conversation at the table made it unnecessary
for Garion to lie directly to anyone about the frightening possibility Aunt
Pol had raised, and after supper he sat beside Adara and lapsed into a kind
of sleepy haze, only half listening to the talk.

There was  a stir at the door, and a guard  entered. "The priest of Belar!"
he announced  in a loud voice,  and a tall man in  a white robe strode into
the room, followed by four men dressed in shaggy furs. The four walked with
a  peculiar  shuffling  gait,  and  Garion  instantly  recognized  them  as
Bear-cultists, indistinguishable from the  Cherek members of the same group
he had seen in Val Alorn.

"Your Majesty," the man in the white robe boomed.

"Hail, Cho-Hag,"  the cultists intoned in  unison, "Chief of the ClanChiefs
of the Algars and guardian of the southern reaches of Aloria."

King Cho-Hag  inclined his head briefly. "What is  it, Elvar?" he asked the
priest.

"I have  come to congratulate your Majesty upon  the occasion of your great
victory over the forces of the Dark God," the priest replied.

"You are most kind, Elvar," Cho-Hag answered politely.

"Moreover,"  Elvar continued,  "it  has come  to my  attention that  a holy
object  has come  into the Stronghold  of the  Algars. I presume  that your
Majesty  will  wish  to  place  it  in  the  hands of  the  priesthood  for
safekeeping."

Garion, alarmed  at the priest's  suggestion, half rose from  his seat, but
stopped, not  knowing how to  voice his objection. Errand,  however, with a
confident smile, was already  walking toward Elvar. The knots Durnik had so
carefully tied were undone,  and the child took the Orb out of the pouch at
his  waist  and offered  it  to  the startled  priest.  "Errand?" he  said.

Elvar's eyes  bulged and he recoiled from the  Orb, lifting his hands above
his head to avoid touching it.

"Go ahead,  Elvar," Polgara's  voice came mockingly from  the doorway. "Let
him who is without  ill intent in the silence of his soul stretch forth his
hand and take the Orb."

"Lady Polgara," the priest stammered. "We thought - that is - I -"

"He seems to have some reservations," Silk suggested dryly. "Perhaps he has
some  lingering  and deep-seated  doubts  about  his own  purity. That's  a
serious failing in a priest, I'd say."

Elvar  looked at  the little  man helplessly,  his hands still  held aloft.

"You should never ask  for something you're not prepared to accept, Elvar,"
Polgara suggested.

"Lady Polgara," Elvar blurted, "we thought that you'd be so busy caring for
your father that " He faltered.

"-That you  could take possession of the Orb before  I knew about it? Think
again,  Elvar.  I  won't allow  the  Orb  to fall  into  the  hands of  the
Bear-cult." She smiled rather  sweetly at him. "Unless you happen to be the
one  destined  to wield  it,  of  course. My  father  and I  would both  be
overjoyed to  hand the burden over to someone else.  Why don't we find out?
All  you   have  to  do  is  reach  out  your   hand  and  take  the  Orb."

Elvar's face blanched, and he backed away from Errand fearfully.

"I  believe   that  will   be  all,  Elvar,"  King   Cho-Hag  said  firmly.

The priest  looked about helplessly, then turned  and quickly left the hall
with his cultists close behind him.

"Make him put it away, Durnik," Polgara told the smith. "And see if you can
do something about the knots."

"I could seal them  up with lead," Durnik mused. "Maybe that would keep him
from getting it open."

"It might be worth a try." Then she looked around. "I thought you might all
like to  know that my father's awake," she told  him. "The old fool appears
to be stronger than we thought."

Garion,  immediately alert, looked  at her  sharply, trying to  detect some
hint that  she might not be telling them everything,  but her calm face was
totally unreadable.

Barak, laughing loudly with relief, slapped Hettar on the back. "I told you
he'd be  all right," he exclaimed delightedly. The  others in the room were
already crowding around Polgara, asking for details.

"He's awake,"  she told them. "That's  about all I can  say at the moment -
except that  he's his  usual charming self. He's  already complaining about
lumps in the bed and demanding strong ale."

"I'll send some at once," Queen Silar said.

"No, Silar," Polgara replied firmly. "He gets broth, not ale."

"He won't like that much," Silk suggested.

"Isn't that  a shame?" She smiled. She half turned, as  if about to go back
to the  sickroom, then stopped and looked  rather quizzically at Garion who
sat,  relieved, but  still apprehensive  about Belgarath's  true condition,
beside  Adara.  "I  see   that  you've  met  your  cousin,"  she  observed.

"Who?"

"Don't sit there with  your mouth open, Garion," she advised him. "It makes
you  look like  an idiot.  Adara's the  youngest daughter of  your mother's
sister. Haven't I ever told you about her?"

It all  came crashing in on  him. "Aunt Pol!" he  protested. "How could you
forget something that important?"

But Adara, obviously as startled by the announcement as he had been, gave a
low cry, put her  arms about his neck and kissed him warmly. "Dear cousin!"
she exclaimed.

Garion flushed, then went pale, then flushed again. He stared first at Aunt
Pol,  then at  his cousin,  unable to  speak or  even to  think coherently.





Chapter Seven

IN  THE DAYS  that followed  while the  others rested  and Aunt  Pol nursed
Belgarath back  to health, Garion and his  cousin spent every waking moment
together. From the time he had been a very small child he had believed that
Aunt  Pol  was  his  only family.  Later,  he  had  discovered that  Mister
Wolf-Belgarath -  was also  a relative, though infinitely  far removed. But
Adara was  different. She  was nearly his  own age, for one  thing, and she
seemed immediately to fill that void that had always been there. She became
at once all those  sisters and cousins and younger aunts that others seemed
to have but that he did not.

She showed  him the Algar Stronghold  from top to bottom.  As they wandered
together  down long,  empty  corridors, they  frequently held  each others'
hands. Most of the  time, however, they talked. They sat together in out-of
the-way  places  with  their   heads  close  together,  talking,  laughing,
exchanging  confidences  and opening  their  hearts to  each other.  Garion
discovered  a hunger  for talk in  himself that  he had not  suspected. The
circumstances  of the  past year had  made him  reticent, and now  all that
flood of words broke loose. Because he loved his tall, beautiful cousin, he
told  her   things  he  would   not  have  told  any   other  living  soul.

Adara  responded to his  affection with a  love of  her own that  seemed as
deep, and  she listened to his outpourings with  an attention that made him
reveal himself even more.

"Can you really do that?" she asked when, one bright winter afternoon, they
sat together  in an  embrasure high up  in the fortress wall  with a window
behind them  overlooking the  vast sea of winter-brown  grass stretching to
the horizon. "Are you really a sorcerer?"

"I'm afraid so," he replied.

"Afraid?"

"There  are some  pretty awful  things involved  in it,  Adara. At  first I
didn't want to believe  it, but things kept happening because I wanted them
to  happen, It  finally reached  the point  where I  couldn't doubt  it any
more."

"Show me," she urged him.

He  looked around  a bit  nervously. "I  don't really  think I  should," he
apologized. "It  makes a certain kind  of noise, you see,  and Aunt Pol can
hear it.  For some reason I  don't think she'd approve if  I just did it to
show off."

"You're not afraid of her, are you?"

"It's not exactly that. I just don't want her to be disappointed in me." He
considered that.  "Let me  see if I  can explain. We had  an awful argument
once - in Nyissa.  I said some things I didn't really mean, and she told me
exactly  what she'd  gone through for  me." He  looked somberly out  of the
window, remembering Aunt Pol's  words on the steamy deck of Greldik's ship.
"She's devoted  a thousand years to me, Adara -  to my family actually, but
finally all  because of me. She's  given up every single  thing that's ever
been important  to her for me. Can you imagine  the kind of obligation that
puts on me? I'll do anything she wants me to, and I'd cut off my arm before
I'd ever hurt her again."

"You love her very much, don't you, Garion?"

"It goes  beyond that. I don't think there's even  been a word invented yet
to describe what exists between us."

Wordlessly Adara  took his hand, her eyes  warm with a wondering affection.

Later  that afternoon,  Garion went alone  to the  room where Aunt  Pol was
caring for her recalcitrant  patient. After the first few days of bed rest,
Belgarath  had steadily  grown more  testy about his  enforced confinement.
Traces of that irritability  lingered on his face even as he dozed, propped
up by many pillows in his canopied bed. Aunt Pol, wearing her familiar gray
dress,  sat nearby,  her needle  busy as  she altered  one of  Garion's old
tunics for  Errand. The little boy, sitting not  far away, watched her with
that serious  expression that always seemed to make  him look older than he
really was.

"How  is he?"  Garion asked  softly, looking  at his  sleeping grandfather.

"Improving,"  Aunt  Pol replied,  setting  aside the  tunic. "His  temper's
getting worse, and that's always a good sign."

"Are there  any hints that he might be getting  back his-? Well, you know."
Garion gestured vaguely.

"No,"   she   replied.   "Nothing    yet.   It's   probably   too   early."

"Will you two stop that whispering?" Belgarath demanded without opening his
eyes. "How can I possibly sleep with all that going on?"

"You were the one  who said he didn't want to sleep," Polgara reminded him.

"That was before," he  snapped, his eyes popping open. He looked at Garion.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Garion's  been  getting  acquainted  with  his  cousin  Adara,"  Aunt  Pol
explained.

"He could  stop by  to visit me once  in a while," the  old man complained.

"There's not much entertainment in listening to you snore, father."

"I do not snore, Polgara."

"Whatever you say, father," she agreed placidly.

"Don't patronize me, Pol!"

"Of course  not, father. Now, how would you like a  nice hot cup of broth?"

"I would not like  a nice hot cup of broth. I want  meat - rare, red meat -
and a cup of strong ale."

"But you  won't get meat and ale, father. You'll get  what I decide to give
you-and right now it's broth and milk."

"Milk?"

"Would you prefer gruel?"

The old  man glared indignantly at  her, and Garion quietly  left the room.

After that, Belgarath's recovery was steady. A few days later he was out of
bed,  though Polgara  raised some  apparently strenuous  objections. Garion
knew  them both  well  enough to  see directly  to the  core of  his Aunt's
behavior. Prolonged  bed rest had never been  her favorite form of therapy.
She  had always  wanted  her patients  ambulatory as  soon as  possible. By
seeming to  want to  coddle her irascible  father, she had  quite literally
forced  him  out  of  bed.  Even  beyond  that,  the  precisely  calibrated
restrictions  she imposed  on his  movements were deliberately  designed to
anger him, to goad his mind to activity - never anything more than he could
handle  at any  given  time, but  always just  enough  to force  his mental
recovery  to  keep  pace   with  his  physical  recuperation.  Her  careful
manipulation  of  the  old  man's  convalescence stepped  beyond  the  mere
practice of medicine into the realm of art.

When Belgarath first appeared  in King Cho-Hag's hall, he looked shockingly
weak. He seemed actually  to totter as he leaned heavily on Aunt Pol's arm,
but a  bit later  when the conversation  began to interest  him, there were
hints that this apparent  fragility was not wholly genuine. The old man was
not  above  a bit  of  self  dramatization once  in  a while,  and he  soon
demonstrated that  no matter how skillfully Aunt  Pol played, he could play
too. It  was marvellous to watch the two  of them subtly maneuvering around
each other in their elaborate little game.

The  final  question,   however,  still  remained  unanswered.  Belgarath's
physical and  mental recovery now seemed certain,  but his ability to bring
his will  to bear  had not yet  been tested. That test,  Garion knew, would
have to wait.

Quite  early one  morning, perhaps  a week  after they  had arrived  at the
Stronghold,  Adara tapped  on the door  of Garion's  room; even as  he came
awake, he knew it was she. "Yes?" he said through the door, quickly pulling
on his shirt and hose.

"Would you like to ride today, Garion?" she asked. "The sun's out, and it's
a little warmer."

"Of  course," he  agreed immediately,  sitting to  pull on the  Algar boots
Hettar had given him. "Let me get dressed. I'll just be a minute."

"There's no great hurry,"  she told him. "I'll have a horse saddled for you
and get  some food from the kitchen. You  should probably tell Lady Polgara
where you're going, though. I'll meet you in the west stables."

"I won't be long," he promised.

Aunt Pol was seated in the great hall with Belgarath and King ChoHag, while
Queen Silar  sat nearby, her fingers flickering through  warp and woof on a
large  loom upon  which she  was weaving.  The click  of her shuttle  was a
peculiarly drowsy sort of sound.

"Travel's going to be difficult in midwinter," King Cho-Hag was saying. "It
will be savage in the mountains of Ulgo."

"I think there's a way we can avoid all that," Belgarath replied lazily. He
was lounging  deeply in a large chair. "We'll go back  to Prolgu the way we
came, but I  need to talk to Relg. Do you suppose  you could send for him?"

Cho-Hag nodded  and gestured to a  serving man. He spoke  briefly to him as
Belgarath negligently hung one leg over the arm of his chair and settled in
even deeper. The old man was wearing a soft, gray woolen tunic; although it
was early, he held a tankard of ale.

"Don't you think you're  overdoing that a bit?" Aunt Pol asked him, looking
pointedly at the tankard.

"I have  to regain my strength, Pol,"  he explained innocently, "and strong
ale restores  the blood. You seem  to forget that I'm  still practically an
invalid."

"I  wonder   how  much  of  your   invalidism's  coming  out  of  Cho-Hag's
ale-barrel," she  commented. "You  looked terrible when you  came down this
morning."

"I'm  feeling much better  now, though."  He smiled, taking  another drink.

"I'm sure you are. Yes, Garion?"

"Adara wants  me to go riding  with her," Garion said. "I  - that is, she -
thought I should tell you where I was going."

Queen Silar  smiled gently at him. "You've stolen  away my favorite lady in
waiting, Garion," she told him.

"I'm sorry," Garion quickly replied. "If you need her, we won't go."

"I  was only  teasing you."  The queen  laughed. "Go  ahead and  enjoy your
ride."

Relg came into the hall just then, and not far behind him, Taiba. The Marag
woman,  once she  had bathed  and been  given decent  clothes to  wear, had
surprised them all. She  was no longer the hopeless, dirty slave woman they
had found in the  caves beneath Rak Cthol. Her figure was full and her skin
very pale.  She moved with a kind of  unconscious grace, and King Cho-Hag's
clansmen looked  after her as she  passed, their lips pursed speculatively.
She seemed  to know she was being watched, and,  far from being offended by
the  fact,  it  seemed  rather to  please  her  and  to  increase her  self
confidence.  Her violet  eyes glowed,  and she  smiled often now.  She was,
however, never  very far from Relg.  At first Garion had  believed that she
was deliberately  placing herself where the Ulgo would  have to look at her
out of a perverse enjoyment of the discomfort it caused him, but now he was
not so sure. She no longer even seemed to think about it, but followed Relg
wherever he went, seldom speaking, but always there.

"You sent  for me, Belgarath?" Relg  asked. Some of the  harshness had gone
out of his voice, but his eyes still looked peculiarly haunted.

"Ah, Relg,"  Belgarath said expansively. "There's  a good fellow. Come, sit
down. Take a cup of ale."

"Water, thank you," Relg replied firmly.

"As you  wish." Belgarath shrugged. "I was wondering,  do you by any chance
know  a route through  the caves of  Ulgo that  reaches from Prolgu  to the
southern edge of the land of the Sendars?"

"That's a very long way," Relg told him.

"Not  nearly  as long  as  it  would be  if  we rode  over the  mountains,"
Belgarath pointed  out. "There's no snow in the  caves, and no monsters. Is
there such a way?"

"There is," Relg admitted.

"And would you be willing to guide us?" the old man pressed.

"If I must," Relg agreed with some reluctance.

"I think you must, Relg," Belgarath told him.

Relg sighed.  "I'd hoped  that I could  return home now  that our journey's
almost over," he said regretfully.

Belgarath  laughed. "Actually,  our journey's  only just started,  Relg. We
have a long way to go yet."

Taiba smiled a slow, pleased little smile at that.

Garion felt  a small hand slip into his, and he  smiled down at Errand, who
had just come  into the hall. "Is it all right, Aunt  Pol?" he asked. "If I
go riding, I mean?"

"Of course, dear," she replied. "Just be careful. Don't try to show off for
Adara. I don't want you falling off a horse and breaking anything."

Errand  let  go of  Garion's  hand and  walked  over to  where Relg  stood.

The knots  on the pouch that Durnik had so  carefully sealed with lead were
undone again,  and the little boy took the Orb out  and offered it to Relg.
"Errand?" he said.

"Why don't you take it, Relg?" Taiba asked the startled man. "No one in the
world questions your purity."

Relg  stepped back  and  shook his  head. "The  Orb is  the holy  object of
another religion,"  he declared. "It is from Aldur,  not UL, so it wouldn't
be proper for me to touch it."

Taiba  smiled  knowingly, her  violet  eyes  intent on  the zealot's  face.
"Errand," Aunt Pol said, "come here."

Obediently he went to  her. She took hold of the pouch at his belt and held
it open. "Put it away," she told him.

Errand sighed and deposited the Orb in the pouch.

"How does he manage to keep getting this open?" she said half to herself as
she examined the strings of the pouch.

Garion and Adara rode out from the Stronghold into the rolling hills to the
west. The  sky was a deep blue, and the  sunlight was very bright. Although
the morning  was crisp, it  was not nearly as  cold as it had  been for the
past  week or  so. The  grass beneath  their horses'  hooves was  brown and
lifeless, lying  dormant under  the winter sky. They  rode together without
speaking for an hour  or so, and finally they stopped and dismounted on the
sunny south  side of a hill where there was  shelter from the stiff breeze.
They  sat together  looking out  at the  featureless miles of  the Algarian
plain.

"How much  can actually  be done with  sorcery, Garion?" she  asked after a
long silence.

He shrugged. "It depends  on who's doing it. Some people are very powerful;
others can hardly do anything at all."

"Could you-"  She hesitated. "Could you make this  bush bloom?" She went on
quickly, and he knew  that was not the question she had originally intended
to  ask. "Right  now,  I mean,  in the  middle  of wintertime,"  she added.

Garion looked  at the  dry, scrubby bit  of gorse, putting  the sequence of
what he'd  have to do together. "I suppose I could,"  he replied, "but if I
did that  in the wrong season,  the bush wouldn't have  any defense against
the cold, and it would die."

"It's only a bush, Garion."

"Why kill it?"

She avoided his eyes. "Could you make something happen for me, Garion?" she
asked. "Some  small thing.  I need something  to believe in  very much just
now."

"I can try, I  guess." He did not understand her suddenly somber mood. "How
about something  like this?" He picked up a twig and  turned it over in his
hands,  looking carefully  at it.  Then he  wrapped several strands  of dry
grass around  it and  studied it again  until he had  what he  wanted to do
firmly in his mind.  When he released his will on it, he  did not do it all
at  once,  so  the   change  was  gradual.  Adara's  eyes  widened  as  the
sorry-looking  clump  of twig  and  dry  grass was  transmuted before  her.

It really  wasn't much of a  flower. It was a  kind of pale lavender color,
and it was distinctly lopsided. It was quite small, and its petals were not
very  firmly  attached. Its  fragrance,  however,  was sweet  with all  the
promise of  summer. Garion  felt very strange  as he wordlessly  handed the
flower to his cousin.  The sound of it had not been that rushing noise he'd
always associated with sorcery, but rather was very much like the bell-tone
he'd heard  in the glowing cave when he'd given life  to the colt. And when
he  had  begun to  focus  his  will, he  had  not drawn  anything from  his
surroundings. It  had all come from  within him, and there  had been a deep
and peculiar love in it.

"lt's lovely,"  Adara said, holding the little  flower gently in her cupped
hands  and inhaling  its fragrance.  Her dark  hair fell across  her cheek,
hiding her face from him. Then she lifted her chin, and Garion saw that her
eyes were  filled with tears. "It  seems to help," she  said, "for a little
while, anyway "

"What's wrong, Adara?"

She did not answer, but looked out across the dun-brown plain.

"Who's Ce'Nedra?" she asked  suddenly. "I've heard the others mention her "

"Ce'Nedra?  She's an  Imperial Princess  - the  daughter of Itan  Horune of
Tolnedra."

"What's she like?"

"Very small - she's  part Dryad - and she has red hair and green eyes and a
bad  temper. She's  a spoiled  little brat,  and she  doesn't like  me very
much."

"But you  could change that, couldn't you?" Adara  laughed and wiped at the
tears.

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"All you'd have to do is-" She made a vague kind of gesture.

"Oh." He caught her meaning. "No, we can't do very much with other people's
thoughts and  feelings. What I mean is - well,  there's nothing to get hold
of. I wouldn't even know where to start."

Adara looked at him for a moment, then she buried her face in her hands and
began to cry.

"What's the matter?" he asked, alarmed.

"Nothing," she said. "It's not important."

"It is important. Why are you crying?"

"I'd hoped  - when I first  heard that you were a  sorcerer - and then when
you made this flower, I thought you could do anything. I thought that maybe
you might be able to do something for me."

"I'll do anything you ask, Adara. You know that."

"But you can't, Garion. You just said so yourself."

"What was it that you wanted me to do?"

"I thought  that perhaps  you might be  able to make somebody  fall in love
with me. Isn't that a foolish idea?"

"Who?"  She looked  at him  with a  quiet dignity,  her eyes still  full of
tears. "It doesn't really  matter, does it? You can't do anything about it,
and neither can I. It was just a foolish notion, and I know better now. Why
don't  we just forget  that I ever  said anything?"  She rose to  her feet.
"Let's go back  now. It's not nearly as nice a day  as I'd thought, and I'm
starting to get cold."

They remounted  and rode  in silence back  toward the looming  walls of the
Stronghold. They  did not speak any  more. Adara did not  wish to talk, and
Garion did not know what to say.

Behind them,  forgotten, lay  the flower he  had created. Protected  by the
slope  and faintly  warmed by  the winter  sun, the  flower that  had never
existed before swelled with  silent, vegetative ecstasy and bore its fruit.
A tiny  seed pod at  its heart opened, scattering  infinitesimal seeds that
sifted down  to the  frozen earth through  the stalks of  winter grass, and
there they lay, awaiting spring.





Chapter Eight

THE  ULGO  GIRLS had  pale  skin,  white-blond hair  and  huge, dark  eyes.
Princess Ce'Nedra  sat in  the midst of  them like a  single red  rose in a
garden  of  lilies. They  watched  her every  move  with a  sort of  gentle
astonishment  as if  overwhelmed by  this vibrant  little stranger  who had
quite  suddenly become  the center of  their lives.  It was not  merely her
coloring,  though  that was  astonishing  enough.  Ulgos by  nature were  a
serious, reserved  people, seldom given to  laughter or outward displays of
emotion. Ce'Nedra,  however, lived as always on  the extreme outside of her
skin. They  watched, enthralled, the  flicker and play of  mood and emotion
across her exquisite little face. They blushed and giggled nervously at her
outrageous and  often wicked little jokes.  She drew them into confidences,
and each  of the dozen or so who had become  her constant companions had at
one   time  or   another  opened   her  heart   to  the   little  princess.

There  were bad  days,  of course,  days when  Ce'Nedra  was out  of sorts,
impatient, willful, and when  she drove the gentle-eyed Ulgo girls from her
with  savage   vituperation,  sending  them  fleeing   in  tears  from  her
unexplained  tantrums. Later,  though they  all resolved after  such stormy
outbursts never to go  near her again, they would hesitantly return to find
her   smiling  and   laughing   as  if   nothing  at   all   had  happened.

It was  a difficult time for  the princess. She had  not fully realized the
implications of her unhesitating  acquiescence to the command of UL when he
had told  her to remain behind  in the caves while  the others journeyed to
Rak Cthol. For her  entire life, Ce'Nedra had been at the center of events,
but here she was, shunted into the background, forced to endure the tedious
passage of  hours spent doing nothing but  waiting. She was not emotionally
constructed for  waiting, and  the outbursts that  scattered her companions
like  startled  doves were  at  least  in part  generated  by her  enforced
inactivity.

The wild  swings of her moods  were particularly trying for  the Gorim. The
frail,  ancient  holy  man   had  lived  for  centuries  a  life  of  quiet
contemplation, and Ce'Nedra had exploded into the middle of that quiet like
a  comet. Though  sometimes tried to  the very  limits of his  patience, he
endured  the fits  of bad  temper, the  storms of weeping,  the unexplained
outbursts  -  and  just  as  patiently  her sudden  exuberant  displays  of
affection  when she  would  throw her  arms about  his  neck and  cover his
startled face with kisses.

On  those  days  when  Ce'Nedra's  mood  was congenial,  she  gathered  her
companions among  the columns on the  shore of the Gorim's  island to talk,
laugh,  and play  the little  games she  had invented,  and the  dim silent
cavern was  filled with the  babble and laughter of  adolescent girls. When
her mood was pensive,  she and the Gorim sometimes took short walks to view
the strange  splendors of this  subterranean world of cave  and gallery and
cavern beneath  the abandoned  city of Prolgu.  To the unpracticed  eye, it
might have appeared that  the princess was so involved in her own emotional
pyrotechnics that  she was oblivious  to anything around her,  but such was
not  the case.  Her  complex little  mind was  quite capable  of observing,
analyzing, and  questioning; even in the very midst  of an outburst. To the
Gorim's surprise,  he found her mind quick and  retentive. When he told her
the stories of his people, she questioned him closely, moving always to the
meaning that lay behind the stories.

The princess made many  discoveries during those talks. She discovered that
the core  of Ulgo  life was religion, and  that the moral and  theme of all
their  stories was the  duty of absolute  submission to  the will of  UL. A
Tolnedran might quibble or  even try to strike bargains with his God. Nedra
expected it, and seemed to enjoy the play of offer and counteroffer as much
as did  his people.  The Ulgo mind,  however, was incapable  of such casual
familiarity.

"We were nothing," the Gorim explained. "Less than nothing. We had no place
and no God, but  wandered outcast in the world until UL consented to become
our God.  Some of the zealots  have even gone so far  as to suggest that if
one single  Ulgo displeases  our God, he  will withdraw himself  from us. I
don't pretend to know the mind of UL entirely, but I don't think he's quite
that unreasonable. Still, he  didn't really want to be our God in the first
place, so it's best probably not to offend him."

"He loves  you, " Ce'Nedra pointed  out quickly. "Anyone could  see that in
his face when he came to us that time."

The Gorim  looked doubtful. "I  hope I haven't disappointed  him too much."

"Don't  be silly,"  the  princess said  airily.  "Of course  he loves  you.
Everyone in  the whole  world loves you."  Impulsively, as if  to prove her
point, she kissed his pale cheek fondly.

The Gorim  smiled at her. "Dear child," he observed,  "your own heart is so
open that you automatically assume that everyone loves those whom you love.
It's not always that  way, I'm afraid. There are a good number of people in
our caves who aren't all that fond of me."

"Nonsense,"  she said. "Just  because you  argue with someone  doesn't mean
that you don't  love him. I love my father very much,  but we fight all the
time. We  enjoy fighting with each other." Ce'Nedra  knew that she was safe
using such  terms as "silly" and "nonsense" with the  Gorim. She had by now
so  utterly charmed him  that she was  quite sure  she could get  away with
almost anything.

Although it  might have been  difficult to persuade anyone  around her that
such  was the case,  there had been  a few  distinct but subtle  changes in
Ce'Nedra's  behavior. Impulsive  though  she might  seem to  these serious,
reserved people, she now gave at least a moment's thought - however brief -
before acting or speaking.  She had on occasion embarrassed herself here in
the caves,  and embarrassment  was the one thing  Ce'Nedra absolutely could
not bear. Gradually, imperceptibly,  she learned the value of marginal self
control, and sometimes she almost appeared ladylike.

She had also had time to consider the problem of Garion. His absence during
the long  weeks had been particularly and  inexplicably painful for her. It
was as  if she had misplaced something - something  very valuable - and its
loss left  an aching kind of  vacancy. Her emotions had  always been such a
jumble  that she  had never  fully come  to grips  with them.  Usually they
changed so  rapidly that she never  had time to examine  one before another
took  its place.  This yearning  sense of  something missing,  however, had
persisted for so long that she finally had to face it.

It could not be love. That was impossible. Love for a peasant scullion - no
matter how nice he was - was quite out of the question! She was, after all,
an Imperial  Princess, and  her duty was  crystal clear. If  there had been
even the faintest suspicion  in her mind that her feelings had moved beyond
casual friendship,  she would have an absolute  obligation to break off any
further contact.  Ce'Nedra did not want  to send Garion away  and never see
him again.  The very  thought of doing  so made her lip  tremble. So, quite
obviously,  what she  felt was  not - could  not -  be love. She  felt much
better once she had worked that out. The possibility had been worrying her,
but now  that logic had proved beyond all doubt that  she was safe, she was
able  to  relax.  It  was a  great  comfort  to  have  logic  on her  side.

That left only the  waiting, the seemingly endless, unendurable waiting for
her friends.  Where were they? When  were they coming back?  What were they
doing out  there that could take  so long? The longer  she waited, the more
frequently  her newfound  self control  deserted her, and  her pale-skinned
companions learned  to watch  apprehensively for those  minute danger signs
that announced imminent eruption.

Then finally the Gorim  told her that word had reached him that her friends
were  returning,  and  the   little  princess  went  absolutely  wild  with
anticipation. Her preparations were  lengthy and elaborate. She would greet
them properly of course.  No little girl enthusiasm this time. Instead, she
would be demure, reserved, imperial and altogether grown up. Naturally, she
would have to look the part.

She  fretted for hours  before selecting  the perfect gown,  a floor-length
Ulgo dress of glistening  white. Ulgo gowns, however, were perhaps a trifle
too modest  for Ce'Nedra's taste. While she  wished to appear reserved, she
did not  want to  be that reserved.  Thoughtfully, she removed  the sleeves
from the gown and  made a few modifications to the neckline. Some elaborate
cross-tying at bodice and waist with a slender gold sash accentuated things
a bit. Critically she examined the results of her efforts and found them to
her liking.

Then there  was the problem of  her hair. The loose,  tumbled style she had
always worn  would never do.  It needed to be  up, piled in a  soft mass of
curls atop her head  and then cascading elegantly down over one shoulder to
add that  splash of color across the pristine  whiteness of her bodice that
would set things off just right. She worked on it until her arms ached from
being raised over her  head for so long. When she was finished, she studied
the entire effect of gown and hair and demurely regal expression. It wasn't
bad, she  congratulated herself. Garion's  eyes would fall out  when he saw
her. The little princess exulted.

When  the  day  finally  arrived, Ce'Nedra,  who  had  scarcely slept,  sat
nervously with  the Gorim in his now-familiar study.  He was reading from a
long scroll,  rolling the  top with one  hand while he  unrolled the bottom
with another.  As he  read, the princess  fidgeted, nibbling absently  on a
lock.

"You seem restless today, child," he observed.

"It's just  that I  haven't seen him -  them - for so  long," she explained
quickly. "Are you sure  I look all right'?" She had only asked the question
six or eight times that morning already.

"You're  lovely, child,"  he  assured her  once again.  She beamed  at him.

A servingman  came into the Gorim's study.  "Your guests have arrived, Holy
One," he said with a respectful bow.

Ce'Nedra's heart began to pound.

"Shall  we go  greet them,  child?" the  Gorim suggested, laying  aside his
scroll and rising to his feet.

Ce'Nedra resisted  her impulse to spring from her chair  and run out of the
room. With an iron  grip she controlled herself. Instead, she walked at the
Gorim's side, silently repeating  to herself, "Dignity. Reserve. Imperially
demure."

Her  friends  were travel-stained  and  weary-looking as  they entered  the
Gorim's cavern,  and there were  strangers with them whom  Ce'Nedra did not
recognize. Her eyes however, sought out only one face.

He looked older than she remembered him. His face, which had always been so
serious, had a gravity to it now that had not been there before. Things had
obviously happened  to him while he had been gone  - important things - and
the princess felt a little pang at having been excluded from such momentous
events in his life.

And then her heart froze. Who was that great gangling girl at his side? And
why was he being so deferential to the big cow? Ce'Nedra's jaws clenched as
she glared across the  calm waters of the lake at the perfidious young man.
She had known it would happen. The minute she had let him out of her sight,
he had  run headlong into the  arms of the first  girl who happened by. How
dared he? How dared he!

As the group on the far side of the lake began to come across the causeway,
Ce'Nedra's  heart  sank.  The  tall girl  was  lovely.  Her  dark hair  was
lustrous, and  her features were perfect.  Desperately, Ce'Nedra looked for
some flaw, some blemish. And the way the girl moved! She actually seemed to
flow with a grace  that nearly brought tears of despair to Ce'Nedra's eyes.

The  greetings and  introductions seemed  hardly more than  some incoherent
babble to the suffering  princess. Absently she curtsied to the king of the
Algars  and his  lovely queen.  Politely she  greeted the  lushly beautiful
woman  - Taiba, her  name was -  whom Lady  Polgara introduced to  her. The
moment she  was dreading  was approaching, and  there was no  way she could
forestall it.

"And this  is Adara," Lady Polgara said,  indicating the lovely creature at
Garion's side. Ce'Nedra wanted to cry. It wasn't fair! Even the girl's name
was beautiful. Why couldn't it have been something ugly?

"Adara,"  Lady Polgara  continued,  her eyes  intently on  Ce'Nedra's face,
"this is her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ce'Nedra."

Adara  curtsied with  a grace that  was like  a knife in  Ce'Nedra's heart.
"I've so  wanted to meet your Highness," the tall  girl said. Her voice was
vibrant, musical.

"Charmed,  I'm sure,"  Ce'Nedra  replied with  a lofty  superiority. Though
every nerve within her  screamed with the need to lash out at this detested
rival, she  held herself rigid and silent.  Any outburst, even the faintest
trace  of dismay  showing in her  expression or  her voice would  make this
Adara's victory  complete. Ce'Nedra  was too much  a princess -  too much a
woman -  to permit that ultimate defeat. Though her pain  was as real as if
she were  in the hands of a torturer, she stood  erect, enclosed in all the
imperial majesty she could  muster. Silently she began to repeat all of her
titles  over and  over to  herself, steeling  herself with  them, reminding
herself  grimly just  who she was.  An Imperial  Princess did not  cry. The
daughter of  Ran Borune did not snivel. The  flower of Tolnedra would never
grieve because  some clumsy scullery boy had  chosen to love somebody else.

"Forgive  me, Lady  Polgara," she  said, pressing  a trembling hand  to her
forehead, "but  I suddenly seem  to have the most  dreadful headache. Would
you excuse  me, please?" Without waiting for an  answer, she turned to walk
slowly toward  the Gorim's house. She paused only  once, just as she passed
Garion. "I hope you'll be very happy," she lied to him.

He looked baffled.

It  had gone  too  far. It  had been  absolutely  necessary to  conceal her
emotions  from Adara,  but this  was Garion,  and she  had to let  him know
exactly how she felt.  "I despise you, Garion," she whispered at him with a
terrible intensity, "and I don't ever want to lay eyes on you again."

He blinked.

"I don't  think you  can even begin to  imagine how much I  loathe the very
sight of  you," she added. And with that she  continued on into the Gorim's
house, her back straight and her head unbowed.

Once she  was inside, she fled  to her room, threw  herself on the bed, and
wept in broken-hearted anguish.

She  heard a light  step near the  doorway, and  then the Lady  Polgara was
there. "All  right, Ce'Nedra," she  said, "what's this all  about?" She sat
down on the edge of the bed and put one hand on the shoulder of the sobbing
little princess.

"Oh,  Lady  Polgara,"  Ce'Nedra  wailed,  suddenly  throwing  herself  into
Polgara's arms. "I - I've 1-lost him. He - he's in love with h-h-her."

"Who's that, dear?" Polgara asked her calmly.

"Garion. He's  in love with that Adara, and he  doesn't even know I'm alive
any m-m-more."

"You silly little goose," Polgara chided her gently.

"He does love her, doesn't he?" Ce'Nedra demanded.

"Of course he does, dear."

"I knew  it," Ce'Nedra  wailed, collapsing into  a fresh storm  of weeping.

"It's  only natural  for him  to love  her," Polgara continued.  "She's his
cousin, after all."

"His cousin?" Ce'Nedra's tear-streaked face came up suddenly.

"The  daughter of his  mother's sister,"  Polgara explained. "You  did know
that Garion's mother was an Algar, didn't you?"

Ce'Nedra shook her head mutely.

"Is that what all this is about?"

Ce'Nedra nodded. Her weeping had suddenly stopped.

Lady Polgara took a handkerchief from her sleeve and offered it to the tiny
girl. "Blow your nose,  dear," she instructed. "Don't sniff like that. It's
very unbecoming."

Ce'Nedra blew her nose.

"And so  you've finally admitted it to  yourself," Polgara observed. "I was
wondering how long it was going to take you."

"Admitted what?"

Polgara gave her a long, steady look, and Ce'Nedra flushed slowly, lowering
her eyes.  "That's better," Polgara  said. "You mustn't try  to hide things
from  me, Ce'Nedra. It  doesn't do any  good, you  know, and it  only makes
things more difficult for you."

Ce'Nedra's  eyes had  widened  as the  full impact  of her  tacit admission
struck her.  "It's not possible," she gasped  in absolute horror. "It can't
happen."

"As  my father's  so  fond of  saying,  just about  anything is  possible,"
Polgara told her.

"What am I going to do?"

"First you  ought to go wash your face," Polgara  told her. "Some girls can
cry without  making themselves ugly, but you  don't have the right coloring
for it. You're an absolute fright. I'd advise you never to cry in public if
you can help it."

"That's  not what I  meant," Ce'Nedra said.  "What am  I going to  do about
Garion?"

"I  don't know  that  you really  need to  do  anything, dear.  Things will
straighten themselves out eventually."

"But I'm a princess,  and he's - well, he's just Garion. This sort of thing
isn't permitted."

"Everything will  probably turn  out all right," Lady  Polgara assured her.
"Trust me,  Ce'Nedra. I've been handling matters like  this for a very long
time. Now go wash your face."

"I made a terrible fool of myself out there, didn't I?" Ce'Nedra said.

"It's nothing  that can't be fixed,"  Polgara said calmly. "We  can pass it
off as something brought  on by the excitement of seeing your friends again
after so long. You are glad to see us, aren't you?"

"Oh, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra said, embracing her and laughing and crying at
the same time.

After the ravages of Ce'Nedra's crying fit had been repaired, they rejoined
the others in the Gorim's familiar study.

"Are you recovered, my  child?" the Gorim asked her gently, concern written
all over his dear old face.

"Just  a touch  of  nerves, Holy  One,"  Lady Polgara  reassured him.  "Our
princess, as you've probably noticed, is somewhat high-strung."

"I'm so sorry that  I ran off like that," Ce'Nedra apologized to Adara. "It
was silly of me."

"Your Highness could never be silly," Adara told her.

Ce'Nedra lifted  her chin. "Oh yes I can," she  declared. "I've got as much
right   to  make   a   fool  of   myself   in  public   as  anyone   else."

Adara   laughed,    and   the   entire   incident    was   smoothed   over.

There  was still,  however,  a problem.  Ce'Nedra had,  she  realized, gone
perhaps a  bit too far in  her impulsive declaration of  undying hatred for
Garion. His  expression was confused, even  a trifle hurt. Ce'Nedra decided
somewhat loftily  to ignore the injury she had  inflicted upon him. She had
suffered through  that dreadful scene  on the shore of  the Gorim's island,
and it  seemed only fair that  he should suffer a little  as well - not too
much, of  course, but a little  anyway. He did, after  all, have it coming.
She allowed  him a suitable period  of anguish - at  least she hoped it was
anguish - then spoke to him warmly, even fondly, as if those spiteful words
had never  passed her  lips. His expression  became even more  baffled, and
then she  turned the  full force of  her most winsome smile  on him, noting
with great satisfaction its devastating effect. After that she ignored him.

While  Belgarath  and Lady  Polgara  were  recounting the  events of  their
harrowing journey to Rak Cthol, the princess sat demurely beside Adara on a
bench, half listening, but  for the most part turning the amazing discovery
of the past hour over and over in her mind. Suddenly, she felt eyes on her,
and she looked up  quickly. The little blond boy Lady Polgara called Errand
was watching  her, his small  face very serious. There  was something about
his eyes. With a sudden and absolute certainty, she knew that the child was
looking directly  into her  heart. He smiled  at her then;  without knowing
why, she  felt a sudden overwhelming  surge of joy at  his smile. He walked
toward her, still smiling, and his little hand dipped into the pouch at his
waist. He took out  a round, gray stone and offered it to her. "Errand?" he
said.  For an  instant Ce'Nedra  seemed to  see a  faint blue  flicker deep
within the stone.

"Don't  touch it,  Ce'Nedra," Lady  Polgara told  her in  a tone  that made
Ce'Nedra's hand freeze in the very act of reaching for the stone. "Durnik!"
Lady Polgara said to  the smith with an odd note of complaint in her voice.

"Mistress  Pol," he  said helplessly,  "I don't  know what  else to  do. No
matter  how   I  seal   it  up,  he   always  manages  to   get  it  open."

"Make  him put it  away," she told  him with  just a hint  of exasperation.

Durnik went to the  little boy, knelt and took hold of the pouch. Without a
word he held it  open, and the child dropped the stone into it. Durnik tied
the  pouch shut,  pulling  the knots  as tight  as  he could.  When  he had
finished,  the little boy  put his  arms affectionately around  the smith's
neck. Durnik looked a bit embarrassed and was about to lead the child away,
but Errand  pulled his hand  free and climbed instead  into Ce'Nedra's lap.
Quite seriously  he kissed her, then nestled down  in her arms and promptly
fell asleep.

Feelings moved in Ce'Nedra  that she had never felt before. Without knowing
why, she was happier than she had ever been in her life. She held the child
close  against her,  her  arms protectively  about him  and her  cheek laid
snugly against  his pale blond curls.  She felt an impulse  to rock him and
perhaps to croon a very soft lullaby to him.

"We'll have to hurry," Belgarath was saying to the Gorim. "Even with Relg's
help, it will take a week or more to reach the Sendarian border. Then we'll
have to cross the  whole country, and the snow in Sendaria can pile up in a
hurry this time of  year. To make things even worse, this is the season for
storms in  the Sea of the  Winds, and it's a long  way over open water from
Sendar to Riva."

The word  "Riva" jerked Ce'Nedra out  of her reverie. From  the very moment
that she and Jeebers  had crept from the Imperial Palace at Tol Honeth, one
single  thought had  dominated  her thinking.  She was  not going  to Riva.
Though she might have seemed on occasion to have surrendered on that point,
her acquiescence had always been a subterfuge. Now, however, she would have
to take a stand. The reasons for her adamant refusal to obey the provisions
of the  Accords of Vo Mimbre were no longer entirely  clear to her. So much
had  happened that  she was  not even  the same  person, but one  thing was
absolutely certain no matter who she was. She was not going to Riva. It was
a matter of principle.

"I'm sure  that once we reach  Sendaria, I'll be able to  make my way to an
Imperial garrison," she said  as casually as if the matter had already been
decided.

"And  why  would you  want  to  do that,  dear?"  Lady  Polgara asked  her.

"As  I  said  earlier,  I'm not  going  to  Riva,"  Ce'Nedra replied.  "The
legionnaires will be able to make arrangements to return me to Tol Honeth."

"Perhaps you should visit your father," Polgara said quite calmly.

"You mean you're just going to let me go?"

"I didn't  say that. I'm  sure we'll be able  to find a ship  bound for Tol
Honeth sometime in the late spring or early summer. Rivan commerce with the
Empire is extensive."

"I don't  think you fully understand me, Lady Polgara.  I said that I'm not
going to go to Riva - under any circumstances."

"I heard  you, Ce'Nedra. You're wrong, however. You  are going to Riva. You
have an appointment there, remember?"

"I won't go!" Ce'Nedra's voice went up an octave or two.

"Yes, you will." Polgara's voice was deceptively calm, but there was a hint
of steel in it.

"I absolutely  refuse," the princess  declared. She was about  to say more,
but a  small finger gently brushed  her lips. The sleepy  child in her arms
raised his hand to touch her mouth. She moved her head irntably. "I've told
you  all before  that I  will not  submit to-"  The child touched  her lips
again. His eyes  were drowsy as he looked up at her,  but his gaze was calm
and reassuring.  Ce'Nedra forgot what she had been  saying. "I am not going
to the Isle of the Winds," she concluded rather lamely, "and that's final."
The trouble was that it didn't sound all that final.

"It seems  that we've  had this discussion  once or twice  before," Polgara
observed.

"You have no right  to-" Ce'Nedra's words trailed off again as her thoughts
went astray  once more. The child's  eyes were so blue  - so very blue. She
found herself  unable to look away from them and  seemed to be sinking into
that incredible color. She  shook her head. It was so completely unlike her
to keep losing track  of an argument this way. She tried to concentrate. "I
refuse to  be publicly humiliated," she declared. "I  will not stand in the
Hall of the Rivan  King like a beggar while all the Alorns snicker up their
sleeves at  me." That  was better. Her  momentary distraction seemed  to be
fading. Inadvertently she glanced down at the child and it all went out the
window  again. "I  don't  even have  the right  kind  of dress,"  she added
plaintively low what had made her say that?

Polgara  said nothing,  but her eyes  seemed very  wise as she  watched the
princess flounder. Ce'Nedra stumbled along, her objections growing less and
less  relevant. Even  as she argued,  she realized  that there was  no real
reason  for  her  not  going  to  Riva. Her  refusal  seemed  frivolouseven
childish. Why on earth had she made such a fuss about it? The little boy in
her  arms smiled  encouragingly at  her, and,  unable to help  herself, she
smiled back  at him, her defenses  crumbling. She made one  last try. "It's
only some silly old formality anyway, Lady Polgara," she said. "There won't
be anyone  waiting for me in  the Hall of the Rivan  King - there never has
been. The  Rivan line is extinct." She tore her  eyes away from the child's
face. "Do I really have to go?"

Lady Polgara nodded gravely.

Ce'Nedra  heaved a great  sigh. All  this bickering seemed  so unnecessary.
What was the point  of making such an issue of a simple trip? It was not as
if there  was any  danger involved. If  it would make people  happy, why be
stubborn about it? "Oh,  all right," she surrendered. "If it's so important
to everyone,  I suppose I can go to Riva." For  some reason, saying it made
her feel much better. The child in her arms smiled again, gently patted her
cheek and went back  to sleep. Lost in a sudden inexplicable happiness, the
princess nestled  her cheek against his curls again  and began to rock back
and forth gently, crooning very softly.





                                  PART TWO

                                    RIVA



                                  [Image]





Chapter Nine

ONCE MORE  RELG led them through  the dark, silent world  of the caves, and
once more  Garion hated every moment of it. It  seemed an eternity ago that
they had left Prolgu, where Ce'Nedra's farewells to the frail old Gorim had
been  long and  tearful.  The princess  rather balled  Garion, and  he gave
himself  over to  some speculation about  her as  he stumbled along  in the
musty-smelling  darkness. Something  had happened  at Prolgu. In  some very
subtle ways, Ce'Nedra was different - and the differences made Garion jumpy
for some reason.

When at last, after  uncountable days in the dark, twisting galleries, they
emerged  once again  into the  world of  light and  air, it was  through an
irregular,  brush-choked opening  in  the wall  of a  steep ravine.  It was
snowing heavily outside with  large flakes settling softly down through the
windless air.

"Are  you sure this  is Sendaria?" Barak  asked Relg  as he bulled  his way
through the obstructing brush at the cave mouth.

Relg shrugged, once more binding a veil across his face to protect his eyes
from the light. "We're no longer in Ulgo."

"There are  a lot of places that aren't in  Ulgo, Relg," Barak reminded him
sourly.

"It sort  of looks like  Sendaria," King Cho-Hag observed,  leaning over in
his  saddle to  stare  out of  the cave  at the  softly falling  snow. "Can
anybody make a guess at the time of day?"

"It's really very hard  to say when it's snowing this hard, father," Hettar
told him.  "The horses think it's  about noon, but their  idea of time is a
bit imprecise."

"Wonderful," Silk  noted sardonically. "We don't know  where we are or what
time it is. Things are getting off to a splendid start."

"It's  not really that  important, Silk,"  Belgarath said wearily.  "All we
have  to do  is go  north. We're  bound to  run into  the Great  North Road
eventually."

"Fine," Silk replied. "But which way is north?"

Garion looked  closely at his grandfather as the  old man squeezed out into
the snowy  ravine. The old man's  face was etched with  lines of weariness,
and the  hollows under his eyes  were dark again. Despite  the two weeks or
more of  convalescence at the Stronghold  and Aunt Pol's considered opinion
that he was fit  to travel, Belgarath had obviously not yet fully recovered
from his collapse.

As  they emerged  from  the cave,  they pulled  on  their heavy  cloaks and
tightened the cinches on their saddles in preparation to move out.

"Uninviting sort  of place, isn't it?"  Ce'Nedra observed to Adara, looking
around critically.

"This is mountain country,"  Garion told her, quickly coming to the defense
of his  homeland. "It's no  worse than the mountains  of eastern Tolnedra."

"I didn't say it was, Garion," she replied in an infuriating way. They rode
for several  hours until they heard the sound of  axes somewhere off in the
forest.  "Woodcutters," Durnik surmised.  "I'll go  talk with them  and get
directions." He  rode off in the direction of  the sound. When he returned,
he had a slightly  disgusted look on his face. "We've been going south," he
told them.

"Naturally," Silk  said sardonically. "Did  you find out what  time it is?"

"Late afternoon,"  Durnik told  him. "The woodcutters  say that if  we turn
west, we'll strike a  road that runs northwesterly. It will bring us to the
Great   North  Road  about   twenty  leagues   on  this  side   of  Muros."

"Let's see if we  can find this road before dark, then," Belgarath said. It
took them  several days to ride down out of  the mountains and several more
before they had passed  through the sparsely inhabited stretches of eastern
Sendaria  to the  more  thickly populated  plains around  Lake  Sulturn. It
snowed intermittently  the entire time, and  the heavily travelled roads of
south-central Sendaria were slushy and lay like ugly brown scars across the
snowy hills. Their party  was large, and they usually had to split up among
several  inns in  the  neat, snowcovered  villages at  which  they stopped.
Princess Ce'Nedra quite frequently  used the word "quaint" to describe both
the villages and the  accommodations, and Garion found her fondness for the
word just a trifle offensive.

The kingdom  through which they travelled was not  the same Sendaria he had
left more than a  year before. Garion saw quiet evidence of mobilization in
almost every  village along the  way. Groups of country  militia drilled in
the  brown  slush in  village  squares;  old swords  and  bent pikes,  long
forgotten in  dusty attics  or damp cellars,  had been located  and scraped
free  of rust  in preparation  for the  war everyone  knew was  coming. The
efforts of these peaceful  farmers and villagers to look warlike were often
ludicrous. Their  homemade uniforms were in every  possible shade of red or
blue  or  green, and  their  bright-colored banners  obviously showed  that
treasured petticoats  had been sacrificed to the  cause. The faces of these
simple  folk, however,  were serious.  Though young  men strutted  in their
uniforms for the benefit of village girls, and older men tried to look like
veterans, the atmosphere in  each village was grave. Sendaria stood quietly
on the brink of war.

At Sulturn,  Aunt Pol,  who had been  looking thoughtfully at  each village
through  which they  passed, apparently  reached a decision.  "Father," she
said to Belgarath as  they rode into town, "you and Cho-Hag and the rest go
straight on  to Sendar.  Durnik, Garion, and  I need to make  a little side
trip."

"Where are you going?"

"To Faldor's farm."

"Faldor's? What for?"

"We all  left things  behind, father. You  hustled us out of  there so fast
that we barely had time to pack." Her tone and expression were so matter-of
fact that Garion immediately  suspected subterfuge, and Belgarath's briefly
raised eyebrow  indicated that he also was fairly  certain that she was not
telling him everything.

"We're starting to trim this a bit close, Pol," the old man pointed out.

"There's still  plenty of time, father," she  replied. "It's not really all
that  far  out  of  our  way.  We'll  only  be  a  few  days  behind  you."

"Is it really that important, Pol?"

"Yes, father.  I think it  is. Keep an eye  on Errand for me,  won't you? I
don't think he really needs to go with us."

"All right, Pol."

A silvery  peal of laughter burst  from the lips of  the Princess Ce'Nedra,
who was watching the  stumbling efforts of a group of militiamen to execute
a right turn without tripping over their own weapons. Aunt Pol's expression
did not change as  she turned her gaze on the giggling jewel of the Empire.
"I   think   we'll  take   that   one   with  us,   however,"  she   added.

Ce'Nedra  protested bitterly  when she  was advised  that she would  not be
travelling directly to the comforts of King Fulrach's palace at Sendar, but
her objections had no impact on Aunt Pol.

"Doesn't  she ever  listen  to anybody?"  the little  princess  grumbled to
Garion  as they  rode  along behind  Aunt Pol  and  Durnik on  the  road to
Medalia.

"She always listens," Garion replied.

"But she never changes her mind, does she?"

"Not very often - but she does listen."

Aunt Pol glanced over  her shoulder at them. "Pull up your hood, Ce'Nedra,"
she instructed.  "It's starting to snow again, and  I don't want you riding
with a wet head."

The princess drew in a quick breath as if preparing to retort.

"I wouldn't," Garion advised her softly.

"But "

"She's not in the mood for discussion just now."

Ce'Nedra   glared   at  him,   but   pulled   up  her   hood  in   silence.

It  was  still snowing  lightly  when  they reached  Medalia that  evening.
Ce'Nedra's  reaction to the  lodgings offered  at the inn  was predictable.
There was, Garion had noted, a certain natural rhythm to her outbursts. She
never began  at the top  of her voice, but  rather worked her way  up to it
with an impressively swelling  crescendo. She had just reached the point of
launching herself  into full voice when she  was suddenly brought up short.

"What an  absolutely charming display of  good breeding," Aunt Pol observed
calmly to  Durnik. "All of Garion's old  friends will be terribly impressed
by this sort of thing, don't you think?"

Durnik looked away, hiding a smile. "I'm sure of it, Mistress Pol."

Ce'Nedra's mouth was still open, but her tirade had been cut off instantly.
Garion was  amazed at her sudden silence. "I was  being a bit silly, wasn't
I?" she said after  a moment. Her tone was reasonable almost sweet-natured.

"Yes, dear just a bit," Aunt Pol agreed.

"Please forgive me - all of you." Ce'Nedra's voice dripped honey.

"Don't overdo it, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol told her.

It was perhaps noon of the following day when they turned off the main road
leading to Erat into the country lane that led to Faldor's farm. Since that
morning, Garion's excitement had risen to almost intolerable heights. Every
milepost, every  bush and  tree was familiar  to him now. And  over there -
wasn't that old Cralto riding an unsaddled horse on some errand for Faldor?
Finally, at  the sight of a tall, familiar  figure clearing brush and twigs
from a drainage ditch,  he was no longer able to restrain himself. He drove
his heels  into his  horse's flanks, smoothly  jumped a fence  and galloped
across the snowy field toward the solitary worker.

"Rundorig!" he  shouted, hauling his  horse to a stop  and flinging himself
from his saddle.

"Your Honor?" Rundorig replied, blinking with astonishment.

"Rundorig, it's me - Garion. Don't you recognize me?"

"Garion?"  Rundorig  blinked  several  more times,  peering  intently  into
Garion's  face. The light  dawned slowly in  his eyes  like a sunrise  on a
murky day.  "Why, I believe  you're right," he marvelled.  "You are Garion,
aren't you?"

"Of  course I  am, Rundorig,"  Garion exclaimed,  reaching out to  take his
friend's hand.

But Rundorig shoved both hands behind him and stepped back. "Your clothing,
Garionl Have a care. I'm all over mud."

"I   don't   care  about   my   clothes,  Rundorig.   You're  my   friend."

The  tall lad  shook his  head stubbornly.  "You mustn't  get mud  on them.
They're too  splendid. Plenty of time to shake hands  after I clean up." He
stared  curiously at  Garion. "Where did  you get  such fine things?  And a
sword? You'd  better not  let Faldor see  you wearing a sword.  You know he
doesn't approve of that sort of thing."

Somehow  things were  not going  the way  they were  supposed to  be going.
"How's Doroon?" Garion asked, "and Zubrette?"

"Doroon moved away last summer," Rundorig replied after a moment's struggle
to remember. "I think his mother remarried - anyway, they're on a farm down
on  the other  side of Winold.  And Zubrette  well, Zubrette and  I started
walking  out together  not too  long after  you left."  The tall  young man
suddenly blushed and looked  down in embarrassed confusion. "There's a sort
of an understanding between us, Garion," he blurted.

"How  splendid, Rundorig!"  Garion  explained quickly  to cover  the little
dagger cut of disappointment.

Rundorig, however,  had already taken the  next step. "I know  that you and
she  were always  fond of  each other,"  he said,  his long  face miserably
unhappy. "I'll  have a talk with her." He looked  up, tears standing in his
eyes. "It wouldn't have gone so far, Garion, except that none of us thought
that you were ever coming back."

"I haven't  really, Rundorig," Garion quickly  assured his friend. "We only
came by to  visit and to pick up some things we  left behind. Then we'll be
off again."

"Have you come for  Zubrette, too?" Rundorig asked in a numb, stricken sort
of voice that tore at Garion's heart.

"Rundorig," he said it very calmly, "I don't even have a home any more. One
night I sleep in a palace; the next night in the mud beside the road. Would
either one of us want that kind of life for Zubrette?"

"I think she'd go  with you if you asked her to, though," Rundorig said. "I
think she'd endure anything to be with you."

"But  we  won't  let   her,  will  we?  So  far  as  we're  concerned,  the
understanding between the two of you is official."

"I   could   never  lie   to   her,   Garion,"  the   tall  boy   objected.

"I  could," Garion  said bluntly.  "Particularly if  it will keep  her from
living out her life as a homeless vagabond. All you have to do is keep your
mouth shut and let me do the talking." He grinned suddenly. "Just as in the
old days."

A slow smile crept shyly across Rundorig's face.

The  gate of  the farm  stood open,  and good,  honest Faldor,  beaming and
rubbing his  hands with delight, was bustling  around Aunt Pol, Durnik, and
Ce'Nedra. The tall, thin  farmer seemed as lean as always, and his long jaw
appeared  to have grown  even longer in  the year  and more since  they had
left.  There was  a bit  more gray at  his temples,  but his heart  had not
changed.

Princess  Ce'Nedra stood  demurely  to one  side of  the little  group, and
Garion carefully scanned her face for danger signs. If anyone could disrupt
the plan he had  in mind, it would most likely be Ce'Nedra; but, try though
he might, he could not read her face.

Then  Zubrette descended  the stairs  from the  gallery that  encircled the
interior of the courtyard.  Her dress was a country dress, but her hair was
still  golden, and  she  was even  more beautiful  than before.  A thousand
memories flooded  over Garion all at once, together  with an actual pain at
what he  had to do. They  had grown up together,  and the ties between them
were  so deep  that  no outsider  could ever  fully understand  what passed
between them in a  single glance. And it was with a glance that Garion lied
to  her. Zubrette's  eyes were  filled with  love, and  her soft  lips were
slightly parted  as if almost ready to answer the  question she was sure he
would ask,  even before he  gave it voice. Garion's  look, however, feigned
friendship, affection  even, but no love.  Incredulity flickered across her
face and then a slow flush. The pain Garion felt as he watched the hope die
in her  blue eyes  was as sharp  as a knife.  Even worse, he  was forced to
retain his pose of  indifference while she wistfully absorbed every feature
of his face as  if storing up those memories which would have to last her a
lifetime. Then  she turned and, pleading some  errand, she walked away from
them. Garion knew that  she would avoid him thereafter and that he had seen
her for the last time in his life.

It had  been the right thing to do, but it  had very nearly broken Garion's
heart. He exchanged a  quick glance with Rundorig that said all that needed
saying,  then he  sadly watched  the departure  of the  girl he  had always
thought  that  one  day  he might  marry.  When  she  turned  a corner  and
disappeared, he  sighed rather  bitterly, turned back  and found Ce'Nedra's
eyes on  him. Her look plainly told him  that she understood precisely what
he had just  done and how much it had cost him.  There was sympathy in that
look - and a peculiar questioning.

Despite Faldor's urgings, Polgara  immediately rejected the role of honored
guest. It was as  if her fingers itched to touch all the familiar things in
the kitchen  once more. No sooner had she entered than  her cloak went on a
peg, an apron went  about her waist, and her hands fell to work. Her polite
suggestions remained  so for  almost a full  minute and a  half before they
became commands,  and then everything was back  to normal again. Faldor and
Durnik,  their  hands  clasped   behind  their  back,  strolled  about  the
courtyard, looking into storage  sheds, talking about the weather and other
matters, and  Garion stood  in the kitchen doorway  with Princess Ce'Nedra.

"Will you show me the farm, Garion?" she asked very quietly.

"If you wish."

"Does Lady  Polgara really like to  cook that much?" She  looked across the
warm kitchen to where Aunt Pol, humming happily to herself, was rolling out
a pie crust.

"I believe  she does," Garion answered. "Her kitchen  is an orderly kind of
place, and  she likes order. Food goes in one end  and supper comes out the
other." He looked around  at the low-beamed room with all the polished pots
and pans hanging on  the wall. His life seemed to have come full-circle. "I
grew up in this room," he said quietly.

"There are worse places to grow up, I suppose."

Ce'Nedra's tiny  hand crept into his. There was  a kind of tentativeness in
her  touch - almost  as if she  were not  entirely certain how  the gesture
would be received. There was something peculiar and rather comforting about
holding her hand. It  was a very small hand; sometimes Garion found himself
forgetting  just how  diminutive  Ce'Nedra really  was. At  the  moment she
seemed very  tiny and very vulnerable, and  Garion felt protective for some
reason. He  wondered if  it would be  appropriate to put his  arm about her
shoulder.

Together they wandered about  the farmstead, looking into barns and stables
and  hen roosts.  Finally  they reached  the hayloft  that had  always been
Garion's favorite hiding place.  "I used to come here when I knew that Aunt
Pol  had work  for  me to  do," he  confessed with  a rueful  little laugh.

"Didn't you want to  work?" Ce'Nedra asked him. "Everybody here seems to be
busy every single moment."

"I don't mind working," Garion told her. "It's just that some of the things
she wanted me to do were pretty distasteful."

"Like scrubbing pots?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"That's not one of my favorites - no."

They  sat together  on the soft,  fragrant hay  in the loft.  Ce'Nedra, her
fingers now locked firmly  in Garion's, absently traced designs on the back
of his hand with her other forefinger. "You were very brave this afternoon,
Garion," she told him seriously.

"Brave?"

"You gave  up something that's always been  very special and very important
to you."

"Oh," he  said. "You  mean Zubrette. I  think it was for  the best, really.
Rundorig loves  her, and  he can take care  of her in ways  that I probably
won't be able to."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Zubrette needs  a lot of  special attention. She's clever  and pretty, but
she's not  really very brave. She used to run away  from trouble a lot. She
needs someone  to watch over her and keep her warm  and safe - somebody who
can devote his entire  life to her. I don't think I'll be able to do that."

"If you'd stayed here at the farm, though, you'd have married her, wouldn't
you?"

"Probably," he admitted, "but I didn't stay at the farm."

"Didn't it hurt - giving her up like that?"

Garion sighed. "Yes," he said, "it did, sort of, but it was best for all of
us, I  think. I  get a feeling  that I'm going  to spend  a lot of  my life
travelling about, and Zubrette's  really not the sort of person you can ask
to sleep on the ground."

"You people  never hesitated  to ask me  to sleep on  the ground," Ce'Nedra
pointed out a trifle indignantly.

Garion looked  at her.  "We didn't, did  we? I guess I  never thought about
that before. Maybe it's because you're braver."

The following morning after extended farewells and many promises to return,
the four of them set out for Sendar.

"Well,  Garion?"  Aunt Pol  said  as they  rode  across the  hill that  put
Faldor's farm irrevocably behind them.

"Well what?"

She gave him a long, silent look.

He sighed.  There was really not  much point in trying  to hide things from
her. "I won't be able to go back there, will I?"

"No, dear."

"I guess  I always thought that when this was  all finished, maybe we could
go back to the farm - but we won't, will we?"

"No, Garion,  we won't. You had  to see it again  to realize it, though. It
was the only way to get rid of the little bits and pieces of it you've been
trailing behind you all these months. I'm not saying that Faldor's is a bad
place, you  understand. It's just that it's  not right for certain people."

"We make the trip all the way up there just so I could find that out?"

"It is fairly important, Garion - of course I enjoyed visiting with Faldor,
too -  and there were a  few special things I left  in the kitchen - things
I've  had   for  a  very  long   time  and  that  I'd   rather  not  lose."

A sudden thought had occurred to Garion, however. "What about Ce'Nedra? Why
did you insist that she come along?"

Aunt  Pol glanced  back once at  the little  princess, who was  riding some
yards behind  them with her eyes lost in thought.  "It didn't hurt her, and
she  saw   some  things  there  that  were   important  for  her  to  see."

"I'm fairly sure that I'll never understand that."

"No, dear," she agreed, "probably not."

It snowed fitfully for  the next day and a half as they rode along the road
that crossed  the white central plain toward  the capital at Sendar. Though
it  was  not particularly  cold,  the  sky remained  overcast and  periodic
flurries swept  in on them as they rode west.  Near the coastline, the wind
picked  up  noticeably,  and  the  occasional  glimpses  of  the  sea  were
disquieting. Great  waves ran before the wind,  their tops ripped to frothy
tatters.

At  King Fulrach's  palace, they found  Belgarath in  a foul humor.  It was
little more than a week until Erastide, and the old man stood glaring out a
window at  the stormy  sea as if  it were all  some kind  of vast, personal
insult. "So nice you could join us," he said sarcastically to Aunt Pol when
she and Garion entered the room where he brooded.

"Be civil, father," she  replied calmly, removing her blue cloak and laying
it across a chair.

"Do  you see what  it's doing out  there, Pol?"  He jabbed an  angry finger
toward the window.

"Yes, father," she said,  not even looking. Instead, she peered intently at
his   face.   "You  aren't   getting   enough  rest,"   she  accused   him.

"How can  I rest  with all that  going on?" He  waved at  the window again.

"You're just going to agitate yourself, father, and that's bad for you. Try
to keep your composure."

"We have to be in Riva by Erastide, Pol."

"Yes, father, I know. Have you been taking your tonic?"

"There's  just no  talking  with her."  The  old man  appealed directly  to
Garion. "You can see that, can't you?"

"You  don't  really expect  me  to answer  a  question like  that, do  you,
Grandfather? Not right here in front of her?"

Belgarath   scowled   at   him.   "Turncoat,"   he   muttered   spitefully.

The old  man's concern, however, was  unfounded. Four days before Erastide,
Captain Greldik's  familiar ship sailed  into the harbor out  of a seething
sleet storm. Her masts and bulwarks were coated with ice, and her main sail
was ripped down the center.

When the bearded sailor  arrived at the palace, he was escorted to the room
where  Belgarath waited  with Captain  - now  Colonel - Brendig;  the sober
baronet  who  had  arrested  them all  in  Camaar  so  many months  before.
Brendig's rise had been  very rapid, and he was now, along with the Earl of
Seline, among King Fulrach's most trusted advisors.

"Anheg sent  me," Greldik reported laconically  to Belgarath. "He's waiting
at Riva  with Rhodar and Brand. They were  wondering what was keeping you."

"I can't find any  ship captain willing to venture out of the harbor during
this storm," Belgarath replied angrily.

"Well, I'm  here now,"  Greldik told him.  "I've got to patch  my sail, but
that won't take too long. We can leave in the morning. Is there anything to
drink around here?"

"How's the weather out there?" Belgarath asked.

"A little  choppy," Greldik admitted with  an indifferent shrug. He glanced
through a window at  the twelve-foot waves crashing green and foamy against
the  icy stone  wharves in  the harbor  below. "Once  you get out  past the
breakwater it isn't too bad."

"We'll leave  in the morning then,"  Belgarath decided. "You'll have twenty
or so passengers. Have you got room?"

"We'll make room," Greldik said. "I hope you're not planning to take horses
this time. It  took me a week to get my bilges  clean after the last trip."

"Just one,"  Belgarath replied. "A colt that  seems to have become attached
to  Garion.  He  won't   make  that  much  mess.  Do  you  need  anything?"

"I   could   still   use    that   drink,"   Greldik   replied   hopefully.

The following  morning the queen of Sendaria  went into hysterics. When she
learned that she was going to accompany the party to Riva, Queen Layla went
all to  pieces. King Fulrach's plump little wife  had an absolute horror of
sea travel - even  in the calmest weather. She could not so much as look at
a ship without trembling. When Polgara informed her that she had to go with
them to Riva, Queen Layla promptly collapsed.

"Everything will be all right, Layla," Polgara kept repeating over and over
again,  trying to  calm the  agitated little  queen. "I won't  let anything
happen to you."

"We'll  all drown  like rats,"  Queen Layla  wailed in stark  terror. "Like
rats! Oh, my poor orphaned children."

"Now stop that at once!" Polgara told her.

"The sea monsters will eat us all up," the queen added morbidly, "crunching
all our bones with their horrid teeth."

"There aren't  any monsters in the  Sea of the Winds,  Layla," Polgara said
patiently. "We have to go. We must be in Riva on Erastide."

"Couldn't  you tell  them  that I'm  sick -  that  I'm dying?"  Queen Layla
pleaded. "If  it would help, I will die.  Honestly, Polgara, I'll die right
here and  now on  this very spot. Only,  please, don't make me  get on that
awful ship. Please."

"You're being silly, Layla," Polgara chided her firmly. "You have no choice
in the matter  - none of us do. You and Fulrach  and Seline and Brendig all
have to go to  Riva with the rest of us. That decision was made long before
any of  you were  born. Now stop  all this foolishness  and start packing."

"I   can't!"   the   queen  sobbed,   flinging   herself   into  a   chair.

Polgara  looked at the  panic-stricken queen  with a kind  of understanding
sympathy, but  when she spoke there  was no trace of  it in her voice. "Get
up, Layla," she commanded briskly. "Get on your feet and pack your clothes.
You are  going to Riva. You'll  go even if I  have to drag you  down to the
ship and tie you to the mast until we get there."

"You  wouldn't!"  Queen  Layla  gasped,  shocked  out of  her  hysteria  as
instantly as  if she had just  been doused with a  pail full of cold water.
"You wouldn't do that to me, Polgara."

"Wouldn't I?" Polgara replied. "I think you'd better start packing, Layla."

The queen weakly struggled  to her feet. "I'll be seasick every inch of the
way," she promised.

"You can  if it makes you  happy, dear," Polgara said  sweetly, patting the
plump little queen gently on the cheek.





Chapter Ten

THEY WERE TWO days  at sea from Sendar to Riva, running before a quartering
wind with  their patched sail booming  and the driving spray  that froze to
everything it  touched. The cabin belowdecks  was crowded, and Garion spent
most of his time topside, trying to stay out of the wind and out from under
the sailors'  feet at  the same time.  Inevitably, he moved  finally to the
sheltered spot  in the prow, sat with his back  against the bulwark and his
blue hooded  cloak tight about him,  and gave himself over  to some serious
thinking. The  ship rocked and  pitched in the heavy  swells and frequently
slammed  head-on  into  monstrous   black  waves,  shooting  spray  in  all
directions. The sea around them was flecked with whitecaps, and the sky was
a threatening, dirty gray.

Garion's thoughts  were almost as gloomy  as the weather. His  life for the
past fifteen months had been so caught up in the pursuit of the Orb that he
had not had time  to look toward the future. Now the quest was almost over,
and he began to  wonder what would happen once the Orb had been restored to
the Hall  of the  Rivan King. There would  no longer be any  reason for his
companions to remain together.  Barak would return to Val Alorn; Silk would
certainly find  some other part  of the world more  interesting; Hettar and
Mandorallen and  Relg would  return home; and  even Ce'Nedra, once  she had
gone through  the ceremony of presenting herself  in the throne room, would
be called back to Tol Honeth. The adventure was almost over, and they would
all pick  up their lives again. They would  promise to get together someday
and  probably be  quite sincere about  it; but  Garion knew that  once they
parted, he would never see them all together again.

He wondered also about his own life. The visit to Faldor's farm had forever
closed that door to him, even if it had ever really been open. The bits and
pieces of information he had been gathering for the past year and more told
him quite plainly that he was not going to be in a position to make his own
decisions for quite some time.

"I don't  suppose you'd consider telling me what  I'm supposed to do next?"
He didn't  really expect  any kind of  satisfactory answer from  that other
awareness.

"It's   a   bit  premature,"   the   dry   voice  in   his  mind   replied.

"We'll be in Riva  tomorrow,"Garion pointed out. "As soon as we put the Orb
back where  it belongs,  this part of  the adventure will  be all finished.
Don't you  think that  a hint or  two might be  in order  along about now?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil anything for you."

"You know, sometimes I think you keep secrets just because you know that it
irritates people."

"What an interesting idea."

The conversation got absolutely nowhere after that.

It was about noon  on the day before Erastide when Greldik's icecoated ship
tacked heavily  into the sheltered harbor  of the city of  Riva on the east
coast of  the Isle of the  Winds. A jutting promentory  of wind-lashed rock
protected  the  harbor  basin   and  the  city  itself.  Riva,  Garion  saw
immediately, was a fortress.  The wharves were backed by a high, thick city
wall, and  the narrow,  snow-choked gravel strand stretching  out to either
side of the wharves  was also cut off from access to the city. A cluster of
makeshift buildings and low, varicolored tents stood on the strand, huddled
against the city wall and half buried in snow. Garion thought he recognized
Tolnedrans and  a few Drasnian merchants  moving quickly through the little
enclave in the raw wind.

The city  itself rose sharply up  the steep slope upon  which it was built,
each succeeding row of  gray stone houses towering over the ones below. The
windows facing out toward  the harbor were all very narrow and very high up
in  the buildings,  and  Garion could  see the  tactical advantage  of such
construction.  The  terraced  city was  a  series  of successive  barriers.
Breaching the gates would  accomplish virtually nothing. Each terrace would
be  as  impregnable as  the  main  wall. Surmounting  the  entire city  and
brooding down at it  rose the final fortress, its towers and battlements as
gray as everything else in the bleak city of the Rivans. The blue and white
sword-banners of  Riva stood  out stiffly in  the wind above  the fortress,
outlined sharply  against the  dark gray clouds scudding  across the winter
sky.

King Anheg of Cherek, clad in fur, and Brand, the Rivan Warder, wearing his
gray cloak,  stood on the wharf  before the city gates  waiting for them as
Greldik's sailors rowed the  ship smartly up to the wharf. Beside them, his
reddish-gold  hair spread  smoothly  out over  his greencloaked  shoulders,
stood  Lelldorin of  Wildantor.  The young  Asturian was  grinning broadly.
Garion took one incredulous  look at his friend; then, with a shout of joy,
he jumped to  the top of the rail and leaped across  to the stone wharf. He
and Lelldorin caught each  other in a rough bear hug, laughing and pounding
each other on the shoulders with their fists.

"Are you  all right?" Garion demanded. "I  mean, did you completely recover
and everything?"

"I'm as  sound as ever," Lelldorin assured him  with a laugh. Garion looked
at his  friend's face dubiously. "You'd say that  even if you were bleeding
to death, Lelldorin."

"No, I'm  really fine," the Asturian protested.  "The young sister of Baron
Oltorain  leeched  the Algroth  poison  from  my veins  with poultices  and
vile-tasting  potions and  restored  me to  health  with her  art. She's  a
marvellous girl." His eyes glowed as he spoke of her.

"What are you doing here in Riva?" Garion demanded.

"Lady Polgara's message reached  me last week," Lelldorin explained. "I was
still at Baron Oltorain's castle." He coughed a bit uncomfortably. "For one
reason or  another, I had kept  putting off my departure.  Anyway, when her
instruction to travel to Riva with all possible haste reached me, I left at
once. Surely you knew about the message."

"This is the first  I'd heard of it," Garion replied, looking over to where
Aunt Pol,  followed by Queen Silar and Queen  Layla, was stepping down from
the ship to the wharf.

"Where's Rhodar?" Cho-Hag was asking King Anheg.

"He stayed  up at  the Citadel." Anheg  shrugged. "There isn't  really that
much point to  his hauling that paunch of his up and  down the steps to the
harbor any more than he has to."

"How is he?" King Fulrach asked.

"I think he's lost some weight," Anheg replied. "The approach of fatherhood
seems to have had some impact on his appetite."

"When's the child due?" Queen Layla asked curiously.

"I  really couldn't  say,  Layla," the  king of  Cherek  told her.  "I have
trouble keeping  track of things like  that. Porenn had to  stay at Boktor,
though.  I guess  she's  too far  along to  travel. Islena's  here though."

"I   need   to  talk   with   you,  Garion,"   Lelldorin  said   nervously.

"Of course."  Garion led his friend several yards  down the snowy pier away
from the turmoil of disembarking.

"I'm afraid  that the  Lady Polgara's going  to be cross  with me, Garion,"
Lelldorin said quietly.

"Why cross?" Garion said it suspiciously.

"Well-" Lelldorin  hesitated. "A  few things went wrong  along the way-sort
of."

"What exactly  are we  talking about when  we say 'went wrong  - sort of?'"

"I was at Baron Oltorain's castle," Lelldorin began.

"I got that part."

"Ariana - the Lady Ariana, that is, Baron Oltorain's sister-"

"The blond Mimbrate girl who nursed you back to health?"

"You  remember her,"  Lelldorin sounded  very pleased  about that.  "Do you
remember how lovely she is? How-"

"I think we're getting away from the point, Lelldorin," Garion said firmly.
"We  were  talking about  why  Aunt  Pol's going  to  be  cross with  you."

"I'm  getting to  it, Garion.  Well-to put  it briefly  - Ariana and  I had
become - well - friends."

"I see."

"Nothing  improper,  you  understand,"  Lelldorin said  quickly.  "But  our
friendship  was such that  - well -  we didn't  want to be  separated." The
young Asturian's face appealed to his friend for understanding. "Actually,"
he went on,  "it was a bit more than 'didn't want  to.' Ariana told me that
she'd die if I left her behind."

"Possibly she was exaggerating," Garion suggested.

"How could  I risk it,  though?" Lelldorin protested. "Women  are much more
delicate than  we are - besides, Ariana's a  physician. She'd know if she'd
die, wouldn't she?"

"I'm sure she would." Garion sighed. "Why don't you just plunge on with the
story, Lelldorin? I think I'm ready for the worst now."

"It's not that I really meant any harm," Lelldorin said plaintively.

"Of course not."

"Anyway, Ariana  and I  left the castle  very late one evening.  I knew the
knight on  guard at  the drawbridge, so I  hit him over the  head because I
didn't want to hurt him."

Garion blinked.

"I knew  that he'd be honor-bound to try  to stop us," Lelldorin explained.
"I didn't want to have to kill him, so I hit him over the head."

"I suppose that makes sense," Garion said dubiously.

"Ariana's almost positive that he won't die."

"Die?"

"I hit him just a little too hard, I think."

The others had all  disembarked and were preparing to follow Brand and King
Anheg  up the  steep, snow-covered  stairs toward  the upper levels  of the
city.

"So that's why you  think Aunt Pol might be cross with you," Garion said as
he and Lelldorin fell in at the rear of the group.

"Well, that's not exactly  the whole story, Garion," Lelldorin admitted. "A
few other things happened, too."

"Such as what?"

"Well  - they  chased us  - a little  - and I  had to  kill a few  of their
horses."

"I see."

"I specifically aimed my arrows at the horses and not at the men. It wasn't
my fault  that Baron Oltorain couldn't  get his foot clear  of the stirrup,
was it?"

"How badly was he hurt?" Garion was almost resigned by now.

"Nothing serious at all - at least I don't think so. A broken leg perhaps -
the one he broke before when Sir Mandorallen unhorsed him."

"Go on," Garion told him.

"The priest did have it coming, though," Lelldorin declared hotly.

"What priest?"

"The priest of Chaldan  at that little chapel who wouldn't marry us because
Ariana  couldn't give  him  a document  proving that  she had  her family's
consent. He was very insulting."

"Did you break anything?"

"A few of his  teeth is about all - and I stopped hitting him as soon as he
agreed to perform the ceremony."

"And so you're married? Congratulations. I'm sure you'll both be very happy
just as soon as they let you out of prison."

Lelldorin drew  himself up. "It's a marriage in  name only, Garion. I would
never take advantage of it - you know me better than that. We reasoned that
Ariana's reputation might suffer if it became known that we were travelling
alone  like that.  The  marriage was  just  for the  sake of  appearances."

As  Lelldorin  described his  disastrous  journey  through Arendia,  Garion
glanced  curiously at  the city  of Riva.  There was  a kind  of unrelieved
bleakness about its snow-covered  streets. The buildings were all very tall
and were  of a uniform gray  color. The few evergreen  boughs, wreaths, and
brightly-hued buntings  hung in  celebration of the  Erastide season seemed
somehuw to accentuate the stiff grimneess of the city. There were, however,
some  very interesting  smells coming  from kitchens where  Erastide feasts
simmered  and  roasted  under  the watchful  eyes  of  the  women of  Riva.

"That  was all  of it,  then?" Garion  asked his  friend. "You  stole Baron
Oltorain's  sister, married  her  without his  consent, broke  his  leg and
assaulted several  of his people -  and a priest. That  was everything that
happened?"

"Well - not exactly." Lelldorin's face was a bit pained.

"There's more?"

"I didn't really mean to hurt Torasin."

"Your cousin?"

Lelldorin nodded moodily. "Ariana  and I took refuge at my Uncle Reldegin's
house, and Torasin made some remarks about Ariana - she is a Mimbrate after
all, and Torasin's very  prejudiced. My remonstrances were quite temperate,
I  thought -  all  things considered  - but  after I  knocked him  down the
stairs, nothing would satisfy him but a duel."

"You killed him?" Garion asked in a shocked voice.

"Of course I didn't  kill him. All I did was run him through the leg - just
a little bit."

"How can  you run  somebody through just  a little bit,  Lelldorin?" Garion
demanded of his friend in exasperation.

"You're disappointed in me,  aren't you, Garion?" The young Asturian seemed
almost on the verge of tears.

Garion  rolled  his eyes  skyward  and  gave up.  "No,  Lelldorin, I'm  not
disappointed - a little startled perhaps - but not really disappointed. Was
there anything  else you  can remember?-Anything you might  have left out?"

"Well, I hear that I've sort of been declared an outlaw in Arendia."

"Sort of?"

"The  crown's  put a  price  on  my head,"  Lelldorin  admitted,  "or so  I
understand."

Garion began to laugh helplessly.

"A true friend wouldn't laugh at my misfortunes," the young man complained,
looking injured.

"You managed to get into that much trouble in just a week?"

"None  of it  was really  my fault,  Garion. Things  just got out  of hand,
that's   all.  Do   you   think  Lady   Polgara's  going   to   be  angry?"

"I'll talk  to her," Garion  assured his impulsive young  friend. "Maybe if
she and Mandorallen appeal to King Korodullin, they can get him to take the
price off your head."

"Is it true that you and Sir Mandorallen destroyed the Murgo Nachak and all
his henchmen  in the throne  room at Vo Mimbre?"  Lelldorin asked suddenly.

"I think  the story  might have gotten  a bit garbled,"  Garion replied. "I
denounced Nachak, and Mandorallen offered to fight him to prove that what I
said was true. Nachak's men attacked Mandorallen then, and Barak and Hettar
joined in.  Hettar's the one who  actually killed Nachak. We  did manage to
keep your name - and Torasin's - out of it."

"You're a true friend, Garion."

"Here?" Barak was saying. "What's she doing here?"

"She came with Islena and me," King Anheg replied.

"Did she-?"

Anheg nodded. "Your son's with her - and your daughters. His birth seems to
have mellowed her a bit."

"What does he look like?" Barak asked eagerly.

"He's a great, red-haired brute of a boy." Anheg laughed. "And when he gets
hungry, you can hear him yell for a mile."

Barak grinned rather foolishly.

When they reached the  top of the stairs and came out in the shallow square
before the  great hall, two rosy-cheeked little  girls in green cloaks were
waiting impatiently for them.  They both had long, reddish-blond braids and
seemed to be only  slightly older than Errand. "Poppa," the youngest of the
two squealed, running to  Barak. The huge man caught her up in his arms and
kissed her  soundly. The second girl,  a year or so  older than her sister,
joined them  with a show of  dignity but was also  swept up in her father's
embrace.

"My daughters," Barak introduced  the girls to the rest of the party. "This
is Gundred." He poked his great red beard into the face of the eldest girl,
and  she giggled  as his  whiskers tickled  her face.  "And this  is little
Terzie." He smiled fondly at the youngest.

"We have  a little  brother, Poppa," the  elder girl informed  him gravely.

"What  an  amazing  thing,"   Barak  replied,  feigning  a  great  show  of
astonishment.

"You knew about it already!" Gundred accused him. "We wanted to be the ones
to tell you." She pouted.

"His name's Unrak, and he's got red hair just the same as you have," Terzie
announced, "but he doesn't have a beard yet."

"I expect that will come in time," Barak assured her.

"He dells a lot," Gundred reported, "and he hasn't got any teeth."

Then the  broad gateway to the  Rivan Citadel swung open  and Queen Islena,
wearing  a dark  red cloak,  emerged from  within, accompanied by  a lovely
blond Arendish  girl and by Merel,  Barak's wife. Merel was  dressed all in
green  and she  was  carrying a  blanket-wrapped  bundle in  her arms.  Her
expression was one of pride.

"Hail Barak, Earl of Trellheim and husband," she said with great formality.
"Thus have I fulfilled  my ultimate duty." She extended the bundle. "Behold
your son Unrak, Trellheim's heir."

With a strange expression,  Barak gently set his daughters down, approached
his  wife, and  took the bundle  from her.  Very gently, his  great fingers
trembling, he  turned back  the blanket to  gaze for the first  time at his
son's face.  Garion could see only that the baby  had bright red hair, much
the same color as Barak's.

"Hail, Unrak,  heir to Trellheim and  my son," Barak greeted  the infant in
his rumbling  voice. Then  he kissed the  child in his hands.  The baby boy
giggled and  cooed as  his father's great  beard tickled his  face. His two
tiny hands reached up  and clutched at the beard, and he bur rowed his face
into it like a puppy.

"He's got a good  strong grip," Barak commented to his wife, wincing as the
infant tugged at his beard.

Merel's  eyes seemed  almost startled,  and her expression  was unreadable.

"This is  my son Unrak," Barak  announced to the rest  of them, holding the
baby up so that  they could see him. "It may be a bit early to tell, but he
shows some promise."

Barak's wife  had drawn herself up  with pride. "I have  done well then, my
Lord?"

"Beyond all my expectations, Merel," he told her. Then, holding the baby in
one arm, he caught  her in the other and kissed her exuberantly. She seemed
even more startled than before.

"Let's  go inside,"  the brutish-looking  King Anheg suggested.  "It's very
cold  out  here, and  I'm  a sentimental  man.  I'd rather  not have  tears
freezing in my beard."

The Arendish girl joined Lelldorin and Garion as they entered the fortress.

"And this is my  Ariana," Lelldorin told Garion with an expression of total
adoration on his face.

For a moment -  for just a moment - Garion had some hope for his impossible
friend.  Lady Ariana  was  a slim,  practical-looking Mimbrate  girl, whose
medical  studies had  given her  face a  certain seriousness. The  look she
directed  at Lelldorin,  however,  immediately dispelled  any hope.  Garion
shuddered inwardly  at the total lack of  anything resembling reason in the
gaze these two exchanged. Ariana would not restrain Lelldorin as he crashed
headlong into  disaster after disaster; she  would encourage him; she would
cheer him on.

"My Lord hath awaited  thy coming most eagerly," she said to Garion as they
followed the others along a broad stone corndor. The very slight stress she
put  on "My  Lord" indicated  that while  Lelldorin might think  that their
marriage was one in name only, she did not.

"We're  very  good friends,"  Garion  told  her. He  looked  around, a  bit
embarrassed by  the way these two kept staring  into each others' eyes. "Is
this the Hall of the Rivan King, then?" he asked.

"'Tis generally  called so,"  Ariana replied. "The  Rivans themselves speak
with more precision, however. Lord Olban, youngest son of the Rivan Warder,
hath most graciously shown us throughout the fortress, and he doth speak of
this as the Citadel. The Hall of the Rivan King is the throne room itself."

"Ah," Garion said, "I  see." He looked away quickly, not wanting to see the
way  all  thought  vanished  from her  eyes  when  they  returned to  their
contemplation of Lelldorin's face.

King Rhodar of Drasnia,  wearing his customary red robe, was sitting in the
large, low-beamed dining room where a fire crackled in a cavelike fireplace
and a  multitude of  candles gave off  a warm, golden  light. Rhodar vastly
filled a  chair at  the head of  a long table  with the ruins  of his lunch
spread before him. His crown was hung negligently on the back of his chair,
and his round, red  face was gleaming with perspiration. "Finally!" he said
with  a grunt.  He waddled  ponderously to  greet them. He  fondly embraced
Polgara, kissed  Queen Silar  and Queen Layla,  and took the  hands of King
Cho-Hag and  King Fulrach in his  own. "It's been a  long time," he said to
them.  Then he  turned to  Belgarath. "What  took you  so long?"  he asked.

"We had  a long way to  go, Rhodar," the old  sorcerer replied, pulling off
his cloak and backing  up to the broad-arched fireplace. "You don't go from
here to Rak Cthol in a week, you know."

"I hear that you and Ctuchik finally had it out," the king said.

Silk laughed sardonically. "It  was a splendid little get-together, uncle."

"I'm sorry  I missed  it." King Rhodar  looked inquiringly at  Ce'Nedra and
Adara,  his expression openly  admiring. "Ladies,"  he said to  them bowing
politely, "if someone will  introduce us, I'll be more than happy to bestow
a few royal kisses."

"If Porenn catches you  kissing pretty girls, she'll carve out your tripes,
Rhodar." King Anheg laughed crudely.

As  Aunt  Pol made  the  introductions, Garion  drew  back a  few paces  to
consider the havoc Lelldorin  had caused in one short week. It was going to
take months  to unravel  it, and there  was no guarantee that  it would not
happen again  - indeed, that it  would not happen every  time the young man
got loose.

"What's the matter with your friend?" It was the Princess Ce'Nedra, and she
was tugging on Garion's sleeve.

"What do you mean, what's the matter with him?"

"You mean he's always like that?"

"Lelldorin-" Garion  hesitated. "Well, Lelldorin's  very enthusiastic about
things, and sometimes he speaks or acts without stopping to think." Loyalty
made him want to put the best face on it.

"Garion." Ce'Nedra's  gaze was  very direct. "I  know Arends, and  he's the
most  Arendish Arend  I've  ever met.  He's  so Arendish  that he's  almost
incapacitated."

Garion quickly came to the defense of his friend. "He's not that bad."

"Really?  And Lady  Ariana. She's  a lovely  girl, a skilled  physician and
utterly devoid of anything remotely resembling thought."

"They're in love," Garion said, as if that explained everything.

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Love does things to  people," Garion told her. "It seems to knock holes in
their judgment or something."

"What a fascinating observation," Ce'Nedra replied. "Do go on."

Garion was too preoccupied  with the problem to catch the dangerous lilt in
her voice. "As soon as somebody falls in love, all the wits seem to dribble
out of the bottom of his head," he continued moodily.

"What a colorful way to put it," Ce'Nedra said.

Garion even  missed that warning. "It's  almost as if it  were some kind of
disease," he added.

"Do  you know something,  Garion?" the  princess said in  a conversational,
almost casual  tone of voice. "Sometimes you  make me positively sick." And
she turned  and walked away, leaving him  staring after her in open-mouthed
astonishment.

"What   did  I   say?"  he   called  after   her,  but  she   ignored  him.

After they had all  dined, King Rhodar turned to Belgarath. "Do you suppose
we might have a look at the Orb?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," the  old man answered.  "We'll reveal it when  it's returned to
its proper place in the Hall of the Rivan King at midday."

"We've  all seen it  before, Belgarath,"  King Anheg asserted.  "What's the
harm in our having a look now?"

Belgarath shook  his head stubbornly. "There  are reasons, Anheg," he said.
"I think it may  surprise you tomorrow, and I wouldn't want to spoil it for
anyone."

"Stop him, Durnik," Polgara said as Errand slipped from his seat and walked
around the table toward  King Rhodar, his hand fumbling with the strings of
the pouch at his waist.

"Oh  no, little  fellow,"  Durnik said,  catching the  boy from  behind and
lifting him up into his arms.

"What a beautiful child," Queen Islena observed. "Who is he?"

"That's  our  thief," Belgarath  replied.  "Zedar found  him someplace  and
raised him as a  total innocent. At the moment, he seems to be the only one
in the world who can touch the Orb."

"Is that it in the pouch?" Anheg asked.

Belgarath nodded. "He's caused  us all some anxiety along the way. He keeps
trying to give it  to people. If he decides to offer you something, I don't
really advise taking it."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Anheg agreed.

As  was usually  the case,  once Errand's  attention had been  diverted, he
immediately seemed to forget  about the Orb. His gaze focused on the infant
Barak was holding; as  soon as Durnik set him down, he went over to look at
the baby.  Unrak returned  the look and  some kind of  peculiar recognition
seemed to pass between them. Then Errand gently kissed the child in Barak's
arms, and  Unrak, smiling,  took hold of  the strange little  boy's finger.
Gundred and  Terzie gathered  close, and Barak's  great face rose  from the
garden of children clustered  about him. Garion could clearly see the tears
glistening in  his friend's eyes as  he looked at his  wife Merel. The look
she  returned him  was strangely  tender; for  the first time  Garion could
remember, she smiled at her husband.





Chapter Eleven

THAT NIGHT A sudden, savage storm howled down from the northwest to claw at
the  unyielding rock  of the  Isle of  the Winds.  Great waves  crashed and
thundered against the cliffs, and a shrieking gale howled among the ancient
battlements  of Iron-grip's  Citadel.  The firm  set rock  of  the fortress
seemed almost  to shudder as the  seething storm lashed again  and again at
the walls.

Garion slept fitfully. There was not only the shriek and bellow of wind and
the rattle  of sleet  against close-shuttered windows to  contend with, nor
the gusting drafts that  blew suddenly down every corridor to set unlatched
doors  banging, but there  were also  those peculiar moments  of oppressive
silence that  were almost as bad  as the noise. Strange  dreams stalked his
sleep that night. Some great, momentous, and unexplained event was about to
take place, and there  were all manner of peculiar things that he had to do
in preparation  for it. He did  not know why he had to  do them, and no one
would tell him if  he were doing them right or not. There seemed to be some
kind of  dreadful hurry, and people kept rushing him  from one thing to the
next without  ever giving  him time to  make sure that  anything was really
finished.

Even the storm seemed to be mixed up in it - like some howling enemy trying
with noise and wind  and crashing waves to break the absolute concentration
necessary to complete each task.

"Are you ready?" It was Aunt Pol, and she was placing a longhandled kitchen
kettle on  his head  like a helmet  and handing him  a potlid  shield and a
wooden stick sword.

"What am I supposed to do?" he demanded of her.

"You know," she replied. "Hurry. It's getting late."

"No, Aunt Pol, I don't - really."

"Of course you do. Now stop wasting time."

He  looked around, feeling  very confused  and apprehensive. Not  far away,
Rundorig  stood with  that same rather  foolish look  on his face  that had
always  been there.  Rundorig  also had  a kettle  on  his head,  a pot-lid
shield, and a wooden  sword. Apparently he and Rundorig were supposed to do
this  together. Garion  smiled at  his friend,  and Rundorig  grinned back.

"That's right," Aunt Pol  said encouragingly. "Now kill him. Hurry, Garion.
You have to be finished by suppertime."

He spun around to  stare at her. Kill Rundorig? But when he looked back, it
was  not Rundorig.  Instead the face  that looked  at him from  beneath the
kettle was maimed and hideous.

"No, no," Barak said impatiently. "Don't hold it like that. Grip it in both
hands and keep it pointed at his chest. Keep the point low so that, when he
charges, he doesn't knock  the spear aside with his tusks. Now do it again.
Try to  get it right this  time. Hurry, Garion. We  don't have all day, you
know." The big man  nudged the dead boar with his foot, and the boar got up
and began  to paw  at the snow.  Barak gave Garion  a quick  look. "Are you
ready?" he demanded.

Then he was standing  on a strange, colorless plain, and there seemed to be
statues all  around him. No. Not statues - figures.  King Anheg was there -
or a  figure that looked like him - and  King Korodullin, and Queen Islena,
and  there was the  Earl of Jarvik,  and over  there was Nachak,  the Murgo
ambassador at Vo Mimbre.

"Which  piece do  you want  to move?"  It was  the dry  voice in  his mind.

"I don't know the rules," Garion objected.

"That doesn't matter. You have to move. It's your turn."

When Garion  turned back, one of the figures was rushing  at him. It wore a
cowled  robe, and its  eyes bulged  with madness. Without  thinking, Garion
raised his hand to ward off the figure's attack.

"Is that the move you want to make?" the voice asked him.

"I don't know."

"It's too  late to change it now. You've already  touched him. From now on,
you have to make your own moves."

"Is that one of the rules?"

"That's the way it is. Are you ready?"

There  was the smell  of loam and  of ancient  oak trees. "You  really must
learn to control your tongue, Polgara," Asharak the Murgo said with a bland
smile, slapping Aunt Pol sharply across the face.

"It's your move again,"  the dry voice said. "There's only one that you can
make."

"Do I have to do it? Isn't there anything else I can do?"

"It's the only move there is. You'd better hurry."

With a deep sigh of regret, Garion reached out and set fire to Asharak with
the palm of his hand.

A sudden, gusting draft banged open the door of the room Garion shared with
Lelldorin,  and   the  two  of  them  sat   bolt  upright  in  their  beds.

"I'll  latch  it  again,"  Lelldorin said,  throwing  back  the covers  and
stumbling across the chilly stones of the floor.

"How longs  it going  to keep blowing  like this?" Garion  asked peevishly.
"How's anyone supposed to sleep with all this noise?"

Lelldorin closed  the door again,  and Garion heard him  fumbling around in
the darkness.  There was  a scraping click  and a sudden  bright spark. The
spark  went out,  and Lelldorin  tried again.  This time  it caught  in the
tinder. The  young Asturian blew on  it, and it grew  brighter, then flared
into a small finger of flame.

"Have you got any idea what time it is?" Garion asked as his friend lighted
the candle.

"Some hours before dawn, I imagine," Lelldorin replied.

Garion groaned.  "It feels like  this night's already been  about ten years
long."

"We can  talk for a while," Lelldorin suggested.  "Maybe the storm will die
down toward dawn."

"Talking's better  than lying  here in the  dark, jumping at  every sound,"
Garion  agreed, sitting up  and pulling  his blanket around  his shoulders.

"Things have  happened to you since  we saw each other  last, haven't they,
Garion?"   Lelldorin    asked,   climbing   back   into    his   own   bed.

"A lot of things," Garion told him, "not all of them good, either."

"You've changed a great deal," Lelldorin noted.

"I've been changed. There's a difference. Most of it wasn't my idea. You've
changed, too, you know."

"Me?" Lelldorin laughed ruefully. "I'm afraid not, my friend. The mess I've
made of  things in the past  week is proof that  I haven't changed at all."

"That  will take  a  bit of  straightening out,  won't it?"  Garion agreed.

"The funny  part about  it all is  that there is  a perverse  sort of logic
about  the whole  thing. There  wasn't one  single thing  you did  that was
actually insane. It's just when you put them all together that it starts to
look like a catastrophe."

Lelldorin sighed.  "And now  my poor Ariana  and I are  doomed to perpetual
exile."

"I think  we'll be  able to fix  it," Garion assured him.  "Your uncle will
forgive you, and Torasin  probably will, too. He likes you too much to stay
angry for long. Baron  Oltorain is probably very put out with you, but he's
a Mimbrate  Arend. He'll forgive anything  if it's done for  love. We might
have to  wait until his leg heals up again, though.  That was the part that
was  a  real  blunder,  Lelldorin.  You  shouldn't have  broken  his  leg."

"Next time I'll try to avoid that," Lelldorin promised quickly.

"Next time?"

They  both laughed  then and  talked on  as their  candle flickered  in the
vagrant drafts stirred by  the raging storm. After an hour or so, the worst
of the  gale seemed to pass,  and the two of  them found their eyes growing
heavy once more.

"Why don't we try to sleep again?" Garion suggested.

"I'll  blow out the  candle," Lelldorin agreed.  He got  up out of  bed and
stepped to the table. "Are you ready?" he asked Garion.

Garion  slept  again almost  immediately,  and almost  immediately heard  a
sibilant whisper  in his ear and  felt a dry, cold  touch. "Are you ready?"
the  whispering voice hissed,  and he  turned to look  with uncomprehending
eyes at  the face  of Queen Salmissra,  a face that shifted  back and forth
from woman to snake to something midway between.

Then he stood beneath the shimmering dome of the cave of the Gods and moved
without thought  to touch  the unblemished, walnut-colored  shoulder of the
stillborn  colt, thrusting  his  hand into  the absolute  silence  of death
itself.

"Are you ready?" Belgarath asked quite calmly.

"I think so."

"All right. Put your will against it and push."

"It's awfully heavy, Grandfather."

"You don't have  to pick it up, Garion. Just push it.  It will roll over if
you  do   it  right.  Hurry  up.  We  have  a   great  deal  more  to  do."

Garion began to gather his will.

And then he sat  on a hillside with his cousin Adara. In his hand he held a
dead twig and a few wisps of dry grass.

"Are you ready?" the voice in his mind asked him.

"Is this  going to mean anything?" Garion asked. "I  mean, will it make any
difference?"

"That depends on you and how well you do it."

"That's not a very good answer."

"It  wasn't a very  good question. If  you're ready,  turn the twig  into a
flower."

Garion did that and  looked critically at the result. "It's not a very good
flower, is it?" he apologized.

"It will have to do," the voice told him.

"Let me try it again."

"What are you going to do with this one?"

"I'll just  " Garion raised his  hand to obliterate the  defective bloom he
had just created.

"That's forbidden, you know," the voice reminded him.

"I made it, didn't I?"

"That has nothing to do with it. You can't unmake it. It will be fine. Come
along now. We have to hurry."

"I'm not ready yet."

"That's too bad. We can't wait any longer."

And then  Garion woke  up. He felt  oddly light-headed, as  if his troubled
sleep  had  done him  more  harm than  good.  Lelldorin was  still deep  in
slumber,  and Garion  found his  clothes in  the dark,  pulled them  on and
quietly left the room.  The strange dream nagged at his mind as he wandered
in the  dimly lighted corridors of Iron-grip's  Citadel. He still felt that
pressing  urgency  and  the   peculiar  sense  that  everyone  was  waiting
impatiently for him to do something.

He found  a windswept courtyard where snow had piled  up in the corners and
the stones  were black and shiny with ice. Dawn  was just breaking, and the
battlements  surrounding the  courtyard were  etched sharply against  a sky
filled with scudding cloud.

Beyond the  courtyard lay the stables - warm,  smelling of fragrant hay and
of horses. Durnik had already found his way there. As was so frequently the
case,  the smith  was  uncomfortable in  the presence  of nobility,  and he
sought  the company  of animals  instead. "Couldn't  you sleep  either?" he
asked as Garion entered the stable.

Garion shrugged.  "For some reason sleep just made  things worse. I feel as
if my head's stuffed full of straw."

"Joyous Erastide, Garion," Durnik said then.

"That's right.  It is,  isn't it?" In  all the rush, the  holiday seemed to
have crept up on him. "Joyous Erastide, Durnik."

The  colt, who had  been sleeping in  a back  stall, nickered softly  as he
caught Garion's  scent, and Garion and Durnik went  back to where the small
animal stood.

"Joyous Erastide,  horse," Garion  greeted him a bit  whimsically. The colt
nuzzled at  him. "Do you think  that the storm has  blown over completely?"
Garion asked Durnik as  he rubbed the colt's ears. "Or is there more on the
way?"

"It has  the smell  of being over,"  Durnik answered. "Weather  could smell
differently here on this island, though."

Garion nodded  his agreement, patted the colt's  neck and turned toward the
door. "I  suppose I'd  better go find  Aunt Pol," he said.  "She was saying
something last night about  wanting to check my clothes. If I make her look
for me, she'll probably make me wish I hadn't."

"Age  is bringing  you wisdom, I  see." Durnik  grinned at him.  "If anyone
wants me, I'll be here."

Garion put  his hand briefly on Durnik's shoulder  and then left the stable
to go looking for Aunt Pol.

He found her in the company of women in the apartment that appeared to have
been set  aside for her personal use centuries  before. Adara was there and
Taiba, Queen Layla and Ariana, the Mimbrate girl; in the center of the room
stood Princess Ce'Nedra.

"You're up  early," Aunt  Pol observed, her  needle flickering as  she made
some minute modification to Ce'Nedra's creamy gown.

"I  had trouble  sleeping," he  told her,  looking at  the princess  with a
certain puzzlement. She looked different somehow.

"Don't stare at me, Garion," she told him rather primly.

"What have you done to your hair?" he asked her.

Ce'Nedra's flaming  hair had been elaborately  arranged, caught at brow and
temples by a gold coronet in the form of a band of twined oak leaves. There
was  some rather  intricate  braiding involved  at  the back  and then  the
coppery mass  flowed smoothly down over one of  her tiny shoulders. "Do you
like it?" she asked him.

"That's not the way you usually wear it," he noted.

"We're all aware of that, Garion," she replied loftily. Then she turned and
looked rather  critically at her  reflection in the mirror.  "I'm still not
convinced about the braiding, Lady Polgara," she fretted. "Tolnedran ladies
don't   braid   their  hair.   This   makes   me  look   like  an   Alorn."

"Not entirely, Ce'Nedra," Adara murmured.

"You know  what I mean, Adara  - all those buxom  blondes with their braids
and their milk-maid complexions."

"Isn't it  a little early to be  getting ready?" Garion asked. "Grandfather
said that we weren't  going to take the Orb to the throne room until noon."

"That's  not really  that far  off, Garion,"  Aunt Pol  told him,  biting a
thread and  stepping back to look critically  at Ce'Nedra's dress. "What do
you think, Layla?"

"She   looks   just   like   a   princess,  Pol,"   Queen   Layla   gushed.

"She is a princess, Layla," Aunt Pol reminded the plump little queen. 'Then
she turned to Garion. "Get some breakfast and have someone show you the way
to the baths," she instructed. "They're in the cellars under the west wing.
After you've bathed, you'll  need a shave. Try not to cut yourself. I don't
want you bleeding all over your good clothes."

"Do I have to wear all that?"

She gave  him a look that  immediately answered that question  - as well as
several others he might have asked.

"I'll go  find Silk," he agreed quickly. "He'll  know where the baths are."

"Do that,"  she told him quite  firmly. "And don't get  lost. When the time
comes, I want you to be ready."

Garion nodded and left. Her words had somehow strangely echoed the words of
his  dream,  and he  wondered  about  that as  he  went  looking for  Silk.

The  little man  was  lounging in  the company  of the  others in  a large,
torch-lighted  room in  the west  wing. The  kings were there,  with Brand,
Belgarath and  Garion's other friends. They  were breakfasting on cakes and
hot spiced wine.

"Where did you go this morning?" Lelldorin asked him. "You were gone when I
woke up."

"I couldn't sleep any more," Garion replied.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"Why  should you  lose  sleep just  because I'm  having a  restless night?"
Garion  could see  that they  were deep  in a  discussion, and he  sat down
quietly to wait for the opportunity to speak to Silk.

"I think  we've managed  to aggravate Taur  Urgas pretty thoroughly  in the
past couple of months,"  Barak was saying. The big man was sprawled deep in
a  high-backed chair  with his face  sunk in  the shadows from  the flaring
torch behind  him. "First Relg steals  Silk right out from  under his nose,
then Belgarath destroys Ctuchik and knocks down Rak Cthol in the process of
taking back  the Orb, and finally Cho-Hag  and Hettar exterminate a sizable
piece of  his army when he  tries to follow us. The  king of the Murgos has
had a  bad year." The big  man's chuckle rumbled out  of the shadows. For a
moment  - a  fleeting  instant -  Garion seemed  to  see a  different shape
sprawled there. Some trick of the flickering light and dancing shadows made
it appear momentarily that  a great, shaggy bear sat in Barak's place. Then
it was  gone. Garion  rubbed at his  eyes and tried  to shake  off the half
bemused reverie that had dogged him all morning.

"I still don't quite follow what you mean about Relg going into the rock to
rescue  Prince Kheldar."  King Fulrach  frowned. "Do  you mean that  he can
burrow through?"

"I don't think you'd understand unless you saw it, Fulrach," Belgarath told
him. "Show him, Relg."

The Ulgo  zealot looked at the old man, then walked  over to the stone wall
beside  the large window.  Silk instantly  turned his back,  shuddering. "I
still can't stand to watch that," he declared to Garion.

"Aunt Pol said I was supposed to ask you the way to the baths," Garion said
quietly. "She  wants me to get cleaned up and shaved,  and then I guess I'm
supposed to put on my best clothes."

"I'll go  with you," Silk offered.  "I'm sure that all  these gentlemen are
going to  be fascinated  by Relg's demonstration,  and they'll want  him to
repeat it. What's he doing?"

"He stuck  his arm through the  wall and he's wiggling  his fingers at them
from outside the window," Garion reported.

Silk  glanced once  over  his shoulder,  then shuddered  again  and quickly
averted  his eyes.  "That  makes my  blood cold,"  he said  with revulsion.
"Let's go bathe."

"I'll go  along," Lelldorin  said, and the  three of them  quietly left the
room.

The baths were in  a cavernous cellar beneath the west wing of the Citadel.
There were  hot springs deep in  the rock, and they  bubbled up to fill the
tiled chambers with steam and a faintly sulfurous smell. There were but few
torches and  only one attendant who wordlessly  handed them towels and then
went  off into  the  steam to  manage the  valves  that adjusted  the water
temperature.

"The big pool there gets hotter the closer you go toward the far end," Silk
told Garion and Lelldorin as they all disrobed. "Some people say you should
go in  until it's as hot  as you can stand it, but I  prefer just to pick a
comfortable  temperature  and  soak."  He  splashed down  into  the  water.

"Are you sure we'll  be alone here?" Garion asked nervously. "I don't think
I'd care  to have  a group of ladies  come trooping in while  I'm trying to
bathe."

"The women's  baths are separate,"  Silk assured him. "The  Rivans are very
proper  about that  sort of thing.  They aren't  nearly as advanced  as the
Tolnedrans yet."

"Are you really sure  that bathing in the wintertime is healthy?" Lelldorin
asked, eyeing the steaming water suspiciously.

Garion plunged  into the pool and  moved quickly out of  the tepid water at
the  near end toward  the hotter area.  The steam  rose more thickly  as he
waded out into  the pool, and the pair of torches set  in rings on the back
wall receded  into a  kind of ruddy  glow. The tiled walls  echoed back the
sounds  of   their  voices  and  splashing   with  a  peculiar,  cavernlike
hollowness.  The steam  eddied up out  of the  water, and he  found himself
suddenly shut  off by it, separated  from his friends in  the hazy dimness.
The  hot water relaxed  him, and he  seemed almost  to want to  float, half
aware, and  let it soak out  all memory - all the  past and all the future.
Dreamily he lay back, and then, not knowing why, he allowed himself to sink
beneath the dark, steaming  water. How long he floated, his eyes closed and
all sense  suspended, he could not have said, but  finally his face rose to
the surface  and he stood up, the water streaming out  of his hair and down
across his shoulders. He felt strangely purified by his immersion. And then
the sun broke through the tattered cloud outside for a moment, and a single
shaft  of sunlight  streamed down  through a  small grilled window  to fall
fully upon Garion. The sudden light was diffused by the steam and seemed to
flicker with an opalescent fire.

"Hail, Belgarion,  " the  voice in his mind  said to him. "I  greet thee on
this Erastide. " There was no hint of the usual amusement in the voice, and
the formality seemed strange, significant.

"Thank you,  " Garion  replied gravely, and  they did not  speak again. The
steam rose and eddied  about him as he waded back toward the cooler reaches
of  the pool where  Silk and Lelldorin,  both sunk  to their necks  in warm
water, were talking quietly together.

About half an hour  before noon, Garion, in response to a summons from Aunt
Pol, walked  down a long stone corridor toward a room  a few steps from the
huge, carved  doors that gave entrance into the Hall  of the Rivan King. He
was wearing his best  doublet and hose, and his soft leather half boots had
been brushed until they  glowed. Aunt Pol wore a deep blue robe, cowled and
belted  at the  waist. For  once Belgarath,  also blue-robed, did  not look
rumpled or spotted. The old man's face was very serious; as he and Aunt Pol
spoke together,  there was no hint of the  banter that usually marked their
conversation.  Seated quietly  in the  corner of  the little  room, Errand,
dressed all in white linen, gravely watched.

"You look  very nice,  Garion," Aunt Pol  said, reaching out  to smooth his
sandy hair back from his forehead.

"Shouldn't we go inside?" Garion asked. He had seen others, grayclad Rivans
and the more brightly garbed visitors entering the hall.

"We  will,  Garion,"  she  replied.  "All  in  good time."  She  turned  to
Belgarath. "How long?" she asked.

"Another quarter-hour or so," he replied.

"Is everything ready?"

"Ask Garion,"  the old man told her. "I've taken  care of everything I can.
The rest is up to him."

Aunt Pol turned to Garion then, her eyes very serious and the white lock at
her brow  gleaming silver in the darkness of  her hair. "Well, Garion," she
asked, "are you ready?"

He looked  at her, baffled. "I  had the oddest dream  last night," he said.
"Everyone kept  asking me that same question. What  does it mean, Aunt Pol?
Am I ready for what?"

"That will  become clearer  in a bit,"  Belgarath told him.  "Take out your
amulet.   You'll  wear  it   on  the   outside  of  your   clothes  today."

"I thought it was supposed to be out of sight."

"Today's different,"  the old  man replied. "As  a matter of  fact, today's
unlike  any  day  I've   ever  seen  -  and  I've  seen  a  lot  of  them."

"Because it's Erastide?"

"That's part of it." Belgarath reached inside his robe and drew out his own
silver medallion.  He glanced at it briefly.  "It's getting a little worn,"
he   noted.  Then   he   smiled.  "-but   then,  so   am  I,   I  suppose."

Aunt Pol  drew out her amulet.  She and Belgarath each  reached out to take
Garion's hands and then to join their own.

"It's been a long time coming, Polgara," Belgarath said.

"Yes it has, father," Aunt Pol agreed.

"Any regrets?"

"I can live with them, Old Wolf"

"Let's go in then."

Garion started toward the door.

"Not you,  Garion," Aunt Pol told  him. "You'll wait here  with Errand. You
two will come in later."

"You'll send  somebody for us?" he asked her. "What I  mean is, how will we
know when we're supposed to come in?"

"You'll  know," Belgarath  told  him. And  then  they left  him alone  with
Errand.

"They didn't give us  very complete instructions, did they?" Garion said to
the child. "I hope we don't make any mistakes."

Errand smiled confidently, reached  out and put his small hand in Garion's.
At his touch, the song of the Orb filled Garion's mind again, sponging away
his worries  and doubts. He could  not have said how  long he stood holding
the child's hand and immersed in that song.

"It's  come  at last,  Belgarion."The  voice  seemed to  come from  outside
somehow, no longer confined  within Garion's mind, and the look on Errand's
face   made  it   quite  clear   that  he   also  could  hear   the  words.

"Is this what I'm supposed to do?" Garion asked.

"It's part of it."

"What are  they doing in there?" Garion  looked rather curiously toward the
door.

"They're getting the people in the Hall ready for what's going to happen. "

"Will they be ready?"

"Will you?" There was a pause. "Are you ready, Belgarion?"

"Yes, " Garion replied. "Whatever it is, I think I'm ready for it."

"Let's go then."

"You'll tell me what to do?"

"If it's necessary. "

With his  hand still  holding Errand's, Garion  walked toward the  door. He
raised his other hand to push it open, but it swung inexplicably open ahead
of him before he touched it.

There were  two guards at the huge, carved door a  few steps down the hall,
but  they seemed frozen  into immobility  as Garion and  Errand approached.
Once again Garion raised his hand, and the immense doors to the Hall of the
Rivan   King  swung  silently   open  in   response  to  his   hand  alone.

The Hall of the Rivan King was a huge, vaulted throne room with massive and
ornately carved  wooden buttresses supporting the  ceiling beams. The walls
were  festooned with  banners  and green  boughs, and  hundreds  of candles
burned in iron sconces. Three great stone firepits were set at intervals in
the floor; instead of logs, blocks of peat glowed in the pits, radiating an
even, fragrant  warmth. The Hall was crowded, but  there was a broad avenue
of  blue  carpet leading  from  the  doors to  the  throne. Garion's  eyes,
however,  scarcely noted the  crowd. His  thoughts seemed suspended  by the
song of  the Orb, which now  filled his mind completely.  Bemused, freed of
all thought  or fear or hint  of self consciousness, he  walked with Errand
close beside him toward  the front of the Hall where Aunt Pol and Belgarath
stood, one on each side of the throne.

The throne of the  Rivan King had been chiseled from a single basalt block.
Its back and arms were all one height, and there was a massiveness about it
that  made it  seem more  permanent than  the mountains themselves.  It sat
solidly against the wall  and, hanging point downward above it, was a great
sword.

Somewhere in  the Citadel,  a bell had begun  to peal, and the  sound of it
mingled with the song  of the Orb as Garion and Errand moved down the long,
carpeted pathway toward the  front of the Hall. As they passed each sconce,
the  candles inexplicably  dropped  to the  merest pinpoint.  There  was no
draft,  no flickering,  as, one  by one,  the candles  dimmed and  the Hall
filled with deepening shadow.

When they  reached the  front of the  Hall, Belgarath, his  face a mystery,
looked  gravely  at them  for  a  moment, then  looked  out  at the  throng
assembled in the Hall of the Rivan King.

"Behold   the   Orb  of   Aldur,"   he   announced  in   a  solemn   voice.

Errand released  Garion's hand, tugged open  the pouch, and reached inside.
As he  turned to face the  darkened Hall, Errand drew  the round gray stone
out of  the pouch and lifted  it with both hands,  displaying it for all to
see.

The song of the  Orb was overpowering; joining with it, there was a kind of
vast, shimmering  sound. The  sound seemed to soar,  rising, ringing higher
and higher  as Garion stood beside  the child, looking at  the faces of the
assemblage.  Within  the stone  Errand  held  aloft there  seemed  to be  a
pinpoint of  intense blue light. The light  grew brighter as the shimmering
sound rose  higher. The  faces before him  were all familiar,  Garion could
see. Barak was there  and Lelldorin, Hettar, Durnik, Silk, and Mandorallen.
Seated  in a  royal  box beside  the Tolnedran  ambassador, with  Adara and
Ariana directly  behind her,  was Ce'Nedra, looking every  inch an Imperial
Princess.  But,  mingled somehow  with  the  familiar faces  were others  -
strange, stark  faces, each  so caught up  in a single  overriding identity
that they seemed almost masklike. Mingled with Barak was the Dreadful Bear,
and Hettar  bore with him the sense of  thousands upon thousands of horses.
With Silk  stood the  figure of the Guide  and with Relg that  of the Blind
Man. Lelldorin was the Archer and Mandorallen the Knight Protector. Seeming
to hover in the air above Taiba was the sorrowing form of the Mother of the
Race That  Died, and her sorrow  was like the sorrow  of Mara. And Ce'Nedra
was no longer  a princess but now a queen - the  one Ctuchik had called the
Queen of the World. Strangest of all, Durnik, good solid Durnik, stood with
his two lives plainly evident on his face. In the searing blue light of the
Orb and  with the  strange sound shimmering  in his ears,  Garion looked in
wonder at his friends,  realizing with amazement that he was seeing for the
first   time   what  Belgarath   and   Aunt   Pol  had   seen  all   along.

From behind  him he heard Aunt  Pol speak, her voice  calm and very gentle.
"Your  task   is  completed,  Errand.  You  may   now  give  up  the  Orb."

The little  boy crowed with delight, turned,  and presented the glowing Orb
to Garion. Uncomprehending, Garion  stared at the fiery stone. He could not
take it. It was death to touch the Orb.

"Reach forth thy hand, Belgarion, and receive thy birthright from the child
who hath borne it unto thee."It was the familiar voice, and yet at the same
time  it  was not.  When  this voice  spoke,  there was  no possibility  of
refusal. Garion's  hand stretched out without his  even being aware that it
was moving.

"Errand!"  the  child  declared,  firmly  depositing the  Orb  in  Garion's
outstretched hand.  Garion felt the peculiar,  seething touch of it against
the mark on his  palm. It was alive! He could feel the  life in it, even as
he stared in blank  incomprehension at the living fire he held in his naked
hand.

"Return the  Orb to  the pommel of  the sword of the  Rivan King,"the voice
instructed,  and  Garion  turned  with instant,  unthinking  obedience.  He
stepped up onto the  seat of the basalt throne and then onto the wide ledge
formed by its back and arms. He stretched up, taking hold of the huge sword
hilt to  steady himself,  and placed the  Orb on the  great sword's pommel.
There was a faint but clearly audible click as the Orb and the sword became
one, and Garion could feel the living force of the Orb surging down through
the hilt  he gripped  in one hand. The  great blade began to  glow, and the
shimmering  sound  rose yet  another  octave.  Then the  huge weapon  quite
suddenly came free from  the wall to which it had been attached for so many
centuries. The throng in  the Hall gasped. As the sword began to drop free,
Garion caught hold of  the hilt with both hands, half turning as he did so,
striving   to  keep   the   great  blade   from  falling   to   the  floor.

What pulled  him off balance was  the fact that it  had no apparent weight.
The sword  was so huge that  he should not have been  able to hold it, much
less lift  it; but  as he braced  himself with his feet  widespread and his
shoulders pressed back against the wall, the point of the sword rose easily
until  the  great blade  stood  upright  before him.  He  stared  at it  in
amazement,  feeling a strange  throbbing between  the hands he  had clasped
about  the  hilt.  The  Orb flared  and  began  to  pulsate.  Then, as  the
shimmering sound soared into a mighty crescendo of jubilation, the sword of
the Rivan  King burst  into a great  tongue of searing  blue flame. Without
knowing why, Garion lifted the flaming sword over his head with both hands,
staring up at it in wonder.

"Let Aloria  rejoice!" Belgarath called  out in a voice  like thunder, "for
the Rivan King has  returned! All hail Belgarion, King of Riva and Overlord
of the West!"

And  yet in  the  midst of  the turmoil  that  followed and  even  with the
shimmering  chorus of  what seemed  a million  million voices raised  in an
exultation echoing  from one end of the universe to  the other, there was a
sullen  clang of iron  as if the  rust-scoured door  of some dark  tomb had
suddenly burst open, and the sound of that clanging chilled Garion's heart.
A voice  echoed hollowly from the  tomb, and it did  not join the universal
rejoicing.  Ripped from  its centuries  of slumber,  the voice in  the tomb
awoke raging and crying out for blood.

Stunned past  all thought,  Garion stood with  his flaming sword  aloft as,
with a steely rustle, the assembled Alorns unsheathed their swords to raise
them in salute.

"Hail Belgarion, my King,"  Brand, the Rivan Warder, boomed, sinking to one
knee and  lifting his sword. His  four sons knelt behind  him, their swords
also lifted. "Hail Belgarion, King of Riva!" they cried.

"Hail Belgarion!"  The great shout shook the Hall of  the Rivan King, and a
forest of upraised swords  glittered in the fiery blue light of the flaming
blade  in Garion's  hands. Somewhere  within the  Citadel, a bell  began to
peal.  As the  news raced  through the  breathless city below,  other bells
caught the sound, and their iron rejoicing echoed back from the rocky crags
to announce  to the  icy waters of  the sea the  return of  the Rivan King.

One in the Hall, however, did not rejoice. In the instant that the kindling
of the sword had irrevocably announced Garion's identity, Princess Ce'Nedra
had  started to  her feet,  her face  deathly pale  and her eyes  wide with
absolute consternation. She had instantly grasped something that eluded him
-  something so  unsettling that  it drained  the color  from her  face and
brought her to her feet to stare at him with an expression of total dismay.
Then there suddenly burst from the lips of the Imperial Princess Ce'Nedra a
wail of outrage and protest.

With  a   voice  that  rang  in  the  rafters   she  cried  out,  "OH  NO!"





Chapter Twelve

THE WORST PART Of it all was that people kept bowing to him. Garion had not
the slightest idea of  how he should respond. Should he bow back? Should he
nod slightly  in acknowledgment? Or perhaps might it  not be better just to
ignore the  whole business and act  as if he hadn't  seen it, or something?
But what  was he  supposed to do  when someone called  him, "Your Majesty"?

The events  of the previous day were still a confused  blur in his mind. He
seemed to remember being presented to the people of the citystanding on the
battlements of Iron-grip's Citadel  with a great, cheering throng below and
the huge  sword that somehow seemed weightless  still blazing in his hands.
Stupendous  as  they  were,  however, the  overt  events  of  the day  were
unimportant when compared to  things which were taking place on a different
level  of  reality.  Enormous  forces had  focused  on  the  moment of  the
revelation  of the Rivan  King, and Garion  was still  numb as a  result of
things he  had seen and perceived  in that blinding instant  when he had at
last discovered who he was.

There had  been endless  congratulations and a great  many preparations for
his coronation, but all  of that blurred in his mind. Had his life depended
upon it, he could  not have given a rational, coherent account of the day's
events.

Today promised  to be even worse,  if that were possible.  He had not slept
well. For one thing,  the great bed in the royal apartments to which he had
been   escorted  the   previous   evening  was   definitely  uncomfortable.

It had  great round  posts rising from  each comer and it  was canopied and
curtained in  purple velvet.  It seemed much  too large for him  and it was
noticeably on the soft side. For the past year and more he had done most of
his sleeping  on the ground, and the down-filled  mattress on the royal bed
was  too yielding  to  be comfortable.  There was,  moreover, the  sure and
certain knowledge that as soon as he arose, he was going to be the absolute
center of attention.

On the whole, he decided, it might just be simpler to stay in bed. The more
he  thought  about that,  the  better it  sounded.  The door  to the  royal
bedchamber,  however, was not  locked. Sometime  not long after  sunrise it
swung open, and Garion  could hear someone moving around. Curious he peeked
through the  purple drapery  enclosing his bed. A  soberlooking servant was
busily opening the drapes  at the window and stirring up the fire. Garion's
attention,  however, moved  immediately to  the large, covered  silver tray
sitting  on the  table by  the fireplace.  His nose recognized  sausage and
warm,  fresh-baked bread-and  butter-there  was definitely  butter involved
somewhere on that tray.  His stomach began to speak to him in a loud voice.

The servant  glanced around the room to make  sure everything was in order,
then came to the bed with a no-nonsense expression. Garion burrowed quickly
back under the covers.

"Breakfast,  your  Majesty,"  the  servant announced  firmly,  drawing  the
curtains open and tying them back.

Garion sighed. Quite obviously, decisions about staying in bed were not his
to make. "Thank you," he replied.

"Does your Majesty require  anything else?" the servant asked solicitously,
holding open a robe for Garion to put on.

"Uh-no-not  right now,  thank you,"  Garion answered,  climbing out  of the
royal bed  and down the three carpeted steps leading  up to it. The servant
helped him into the robe, then bowed and quietly left the room. Garion went
to the table, seated himself, lifted the cover from the tray, and assaulted
breakfast vigorously.

When he had finished eating, he sat for a time in a large, blue-upholstered
armchair looking out the  window at the snowy crags looming above the city.
The storm  that had raked the  coast for days had blown  off - at least for
the moment;  the winter sun was bright, and the  morning sky very blue. The
young  Rivan  King stared  for  a time  out  his window,  lost in  thought.

Something nagged  at the back of  his memory - something  he had heard once
but had  since forgotten.  It seemed that  there was something  he ought to
remember that  involved Princess Ce'Nedra. The tiny  girl had fled from the
Hall  of  the  Rivan  King  almost  immediately  after  the  sword  had  so
flamboyantly announced  his identity  the previous day. He  was fairly sure
that  it was  all mixed  together. Whatever  it was  that he was  trying to
recall had been directly  involved in her flight. With some people it might
be better to let things quiet down before clearing the air, but Garion knew
that this was not the proper way to deal with Ce'Nedra. Things should never
be allowed  to fester in her mind. That only  made matters worse. He sighed
and began to dress.

As he walked purposefully through the corridors, he met with startled looks
and hasty  bows. He soon realized that the events  of the preceding day had
forever robbed  him of  his anonymity. Someone  Garion could never  catch a
glimpse of  his face - even  went so far as to  follow him, probably in the
hope of  performing some service.  Whoever it was kept  a discrete distance
behind, but  Garion caught  occasional glimpses of  him far back  along the
corridor - a gray-cloaked man who moved on strangely noiseless feet. Garion
did not like being  followed, whatever the reason, but he resisted the urge
to turn around and tell the man to go away.

The Princess Ce'Nedra had  been given several rooms just down the hall from
Aunt Pol's apartments, and  Garion steeled himself as he raised his hand to
rap on the door.

"Your Majesty," Ce'Nedra's maid greeted him with a startled curtsy.

"Would you please ask her Highness if I might have a word with her?" Garion
asked.

"Certainly,  your  Majesty," the  girl  replied  and darted  into the  next
chamber.

There was  a brief murmur of voices and then  Ce'Nedra swept into the room.
She wore a plain gown, and her face was as pale as it had been the previous
day.  "Your  Majesty," she  greeted  him  in an  icy  voice,  and then  she
curtsied,   a    stiff   little   curtsy   that    spoke   whole   volumes.

"Something's bothering you," Garion said bluntly. "Would you like to get it
out in the open?"

"Whatever your Majesty wishes," she replied.

"Do we have to do this?"

"I can't imagine what your Majesty is talking about."

"Don't you think we know each other well enough to be honest?"

"Of course.  I suppose I'd  better accustom myself to  obeying your Majesty
immediately."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't pretend that you don't know," she flared.

"Ce'Nedra,  I haven't  the faintest  idea what  you're talking  about." She
looked  at   him  suspiciously,   then  her  eyes  softened   just  a  bit.

"Perhaps you don't at  that," she murmured. "Have you ever read the Accords
of Vo Mimbre?"

"You taught me how  to read yourself," he reminded her, "about six or eight
months  ago. You  know  every book  I've read.  You  gave me  most  of them
yourself."

"That's  true, isn't  it?" she  said. "Wait  just a  moment. I'll  be right
back." She went briefly  into the adjoining room and returned with a rolled
parchment. "I'll  read it to you,"  she told him. "Some  of the words are a
little difficult."

"I'm not that stupid," he objected.

But she had already  begun to read. " `-And when it shall come to pass that
the Rivan  King returns, he shall have Lordship  and Dominion, and swear we
all fealty  to him  as Overlord of the  Kingdoms of the West.  And he shall
have an Imperial Princess of Tolnedra to wife, and-"'

"Wait a minute," Garion interrupted her with a strangled note in his voice.

"Was there  something you  didn't understand? It  all seems quite  clear to
me."

"What was that last part again?"

"-`he shall have an Imperial Princess of Tolnedra to wife, and"'

"Are there any other princesses in Tolnedra?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then that means-" He gaped at her.

"Precisely." She said it like a steel trap suddenly snapping shut.

"Is that why you ran out of the Hall yesterday?"

"I did not run."

"You don't want to marry me." It was almost an accusation.

"I didn't say that."

"Then you do want to marry me?"

"I didn't say that either - but it doesn't really matter, does it? We don't
have any choice at all - neither one of us."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

Her look was lofty. "Of course not. I've always known that my husband would
be selected for me."

"What's the problem, then?"

"I'm an Imperial Princess, Garion."

"I know that."

"I'm not accustomed to being anyone's inferior."

"Inferior? To who - whom?"

"The Accords state that you are the Overlord of the West."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, your Majesty, that you outrank me."

"Is that all that's got you so upset?"

Her  look was  like  a drawn  dagger.  "With your  Majesty's permission,  I
believe I'd like to withdraw." And without waiting for an answer, she swept
from the room.

Garion  stared after  her.  This was  going  too far.  He considered  going
immediately to  Aunt Pol to protest, but the more  he thought about it, the
more convinced he became  that she would be totally unsympathetic. Too many
little things began to  click together all at once. Aunt Pol was not merely
a  party to  this absurd notion;  she had  actively done everything  in her
power to  make absolutely sure that there was no  escape for him. He needed
someone  to talk  to -  someone devious  enough and unscrupulous  enough to
think a  way out of this. He left Ce'Nedra's  sitting room and went looking
for Silk.

The little man  was not in his room, and the servant  who was making up the
bed  kept  bowing as  he  stammered out  his  apologies at  not having  the
slightest   notion  of   where   Silk  might   be.  Garion   left  quickly.

Since the apartment Barak  shared with his wife and children was only a few
steps down the corridor,  Garion went there, trying not to look back at the
gray-cloaked attendant  he knew was still  following him. "Barak," he said,
knocking  on the  big  Cherek's door,  "it's me,  Garion.  May I  come in?"

The  Lady  Merel opened  the  door immediately  and curtsied  respectfully.

"Please, don't do that," Garion begged her.

"What's  the trouble,  Garion?"  Barak asked  from the  green-covered chair
where he sat, bouncing his infant son on his knee.

"I'm  looking for  Silk," Garion  replied, entering the  large, comfortable
room that was littered with clothes and children's toys.

"You're a  little wild around the  eyes," the big man  noted. "Is something
wrong?"

"I've just had some  very unsettling news," Garion told him, shuddering. "I
need  to  talk to  Silk. Maybe  he  can come  up  with an  answer for  me."

"Would you like some breakfast?" Lady Merel suggested.

"I've already  eaten, thank  you," Garion replied.  He looked at  her a bit
more closely. She had undone the rather severe braids she customarily wore,
and her  blond hair framed her face softly. She  wore her usual green gown,
but her carriage seemed  not to have the rigidity it had always had. Barak,
Garion noted, had also lost a bit of the grim defensiveness that had always
been  there   previously  when  he  was  in   the  presence  of  his  wife.

Barak's two  daughters entered the room  then, one on each  side of Errand.
They all sat down  in the corner and began playing an elaborate little game
that seemed to involve a great deal of giggling.

"I think  my daughters  have decided to  steal him." Barak  grinned. "Quite
suddenly I'm  up to my ears in wife and children,  and the funny part about
it is that I don't seem to mind it at all."

Merel  threw him a  quick, almost shy  smile. Then  she looked over  at the
laughing  children, "The girls  absolutely adore  him," she said,  and then
turned back to Garion.  "Have you ever noticed that you can't look directly
into his  eyes for more than  a moment or so? He  seems to be looking right
into your heart."

Garion  nodded. "I  think it  might have  something to  do with the  way he
trusts everybody," he suggested.  He turned back to Barak. "Do you have any
idea where I might find Silk?"

Barak laughed.  "Walk up  and down the  halls and listen for  the rattle of
dice. The little thief's been gambling ever since we got here. Durnik might
know.  He's been  hiding out  in the  stables. Royalty makes  him nervous."

"It does the same thing to me," Garion said.

"But you are royalty, Garion," Merel reminded him.

"That makes me even more nervous," he replied.

There was  a series  of back hallways  that led to the  stables, and Garion
decided  to follow  that route  rather than  pass through the  more stately
corridors where he might  encounter members of the nobility. These narrower
passageways were  used for the most part by servants  going to and from the
kitchen, and  Garion reasoned that most of  the minor household staff would
probably  not recognize  him yet.  As he  walked quickly  along one  of the
passageways with  his head down to avoid  any chance recognition, he caught
another glimpse  behind him of the man who had  dogged his steps ever since
he had left the royal apartment. Irritated finally to the point where he no
longer cared  about concealing his identity,  Garion turned to confront his
pursuer.  "I know  you're there," he  declared. "Come  out where I  can see
you." He waited, tapping his foot impatiently.

The hallway behind him remained empty and silent.

"Come  out  here  at  once,"  Garion  repeated,  his  voice  taking  on  an
unaccustomed note  of command. But there was  no movement, no sound. Garion
thought  for a  moment  of retracing  his  steps to  catch this  persistent
attendant in the act  of creeping along behind him, but just then a servant
carrying a  tray of dirty dishes  came along from the  direction Garion had
just come.

"Did you see anybody back there?" Garion asked him.

"Back where?" the servant said, obviously not recognizing his king.

"Back along the hall."

The  servant  shook his  head.  "I haven't  seen  anyone since  I left  the
apartments of  the King  of Drasnia," he  replied. "Would you  believe that
this  is his  third breakfast?  I've never  seen anybody  eat so  much." He
looked  curiously at  Garion. "You  shouldn't be  back here, you  know," he
warned. "If  the head cook catches  you, he'll thrash you.  He doesn't like
anybody in this hall who doesn't have business here."

"I'm just on my way to the stables," Garion told him.

"I'd move right along, then. The head cook's got a vicious temper."

"I'll keep that in mind," Garion assured him.

Lelldorin was coming out  of the stable, and he gave Garion a startled look
as the  two of them approached each other in  the snowy courtyard. "How did
you  manage  to escape  from  all the  officials?"  he asked.  Then, as  if
remembering, he bowed.

"Please don't do that, Lelldorin," Garion told him.

"The   situation  is   a   bit  awkward,   isn't  it?"   Lelldorin  agreed.

"We'll behave toward each other the same as we always have behaved," Garion
said firmly. "At least until they tell us we can't. Have you any idea where
Silk might be?"

"I saw him earlier  this morning," Lelldorin replied. "He said he was going
to  visit the baths.  He looked a  bit unwell.  I think he  celebrated last
night."

"Let's go find him," Garion suggested. "I've got to talk to him."

They found Silk sitting  in a tiled stone room thick with steam. The little
man  had   a  towel  about  his  waist   and  he  was  sweating  profusely.

"Are you sure this is good for you?" Garion asked, waving his hand in front
of his face to clear an eddying cloud of steam.

"Nothing would  really be good  for me this morning,  Garion," Silk replied
sadly. He put his  elbows on his knees and sank his face miserably into his
hands.

"Are you sick?"

"Horribly."

"If you knew it  was going to make you feel this way,  why did you drink so
much last night?"

"It seemed like a  good idea at the time - at least  I think it did. I seem
to have  lost track of  several hours." An attendant  brought the suffering
man a foaming tankard, and Silk drank deeply.

"Is that really wise?" Lelldorin asked him.

"Probably not,"  Silk admitted with a  shudder, "but it's the  best I could
come  up with  on short notice."  He shuddered  again. "I feel  also lutely
wretched,"  he declared.  "Was  there anything  in particular  you wanted?"

"I've got a problem,"  Garion blurted. He looked quickly at Lelldorin. "I'd
rather this didn't go beyond the three of us," he said.

"You have my oath on it," Lelldorin responded instantly.

"Thank you,  Lelldorin." It  was easier to  accept the oath than  to try to
explain why  it wasn't really necessary. "I've just  read the Accords of Vo
Mimbre," he told them.  "Actually, I had them read to me. Did you know that
I'm supposed to marry Ce'Nedra?"

"I hadn't  actually put  that part together  yet," Silk admitted,  "but the
Accords do mention something about it, don't they?"

"Congratulations,  Garion!"  Lelldorin  exclaimed,  suddenly  clapping  his
friend on the shoulder. "She's a beautiful girl."

Garion ignored  that. "Can you think  of some way I can  get out of it?" he
demanded of Silk.

"Garion,  right now  I can't really  think of  anything except how  awful I
feel. My first hunch though, is that there isn't any way out for you. Every
kingdom in  the west  is signatory to  the Accords -  and then  I think the
Prophecy's involved too."

"I'd forgotten about that," Garion admitted glumly.

"I'm sure  they'll give you time to get used  to the idea," Lelldorin said.

"But how  much time will they give Ce'Nedra? I  talked to her this morning,
and she's not happy about the idea at all."

"She doesn't actually dislike you," Silk told him.

"That's not what the problem is. She seems to think that I outrank her, and
that's what's got her upset."

Silk began to laugh weakly.

"A real friend wouldn't laugh," Garion accused him.

"Is rank really that important to your princess?" Lelldorin asked.

"Probably  not much  more  important than  her right  arm,"  Garion replied
sourly. "I think she reminds herself that she's an Imperial Princess six or
eight times  every hour. She makes a pretty big issue  about it. Now I come
along from  out of  nowhere, and suddenly  I outrank her. It's  the sort of
thing  that's going  to set  her teeth  on edge-permanently, I  expect." He
stopped and looked rather closely at Silk. "Do you think there's any chance
of your getting well today?"

"What have you got in mind?"

"Do you know your way around Riva at all?"

"Naturally."

"I was  sort of thinking that  I ought to go down into  the city - not with
trumpets blowing and all  that - but just dressed like somebody ordinary. I
don't know anything at all about the Rivans, and now-" He faltered with it.

"And now you're their king," Lelldorin finished for him.

"It's probably not a bad idea," Silk agreed. "Though I can't really say for
sure. My  brain isn't working too well just now. It  will have to be today,
of course. Your coronation's scheduled for tomorrow, and your movements are
likely  to  be  restricted  after they've  put  the  crown  on your  head."

Garion didn't want to think about that.

"I hope the two  of you don't mind if I take a  little while to pull myself
together  first,  though," Silk  added,  drinking from  the tankard  again.
"Actually it  doesn't really matter if you mind or  not. It's a question of
necessity."

It  took the  rat-faced little man  only about  an hour to  recuperate. His
remedies  were brutally  direct. He  soaked up  hot steam  and cold  ale in
approximately  equal amounts,  then  emerged from  the steamroom  to plunge
directly into  a pool  of icy water. He  was blue and shaking  when he came
out, but  the worst  of his indisposition  seemed to be  gone. He carefully
selected nondescript clothes for the three of them, then led the way out of
the  Citadel by  way  of a  side gate.  As they  left, Garion  glanced back
several times,  but he seemed  to have shaken off  the persistent attendant
who had been following him all morning.

As they  wandered down into the city, Garion was  struck again by the bleak
severity of  the place. The outsides of the  houses were uniformly gray and
totally lacking  any form of exterior  decoration. They were solid, square,
and absolutely colorless. The  gray cloak which was the outstanding feature
of  the Rivan  national costume gave  the people  in the narrow  streets an
appearance of  that same grimness. Garion  quailed a bit at  the thought of
spending the rest of his life in so uninviting a place.

They walked down a  long street in pale winter sunshine with the salt smell
of the  harbor strong in their nostrils and passed  a house from which came
the  sound of  children singing.  Their voices  were very clear  and merged
together in  subtle harmonies.  Garion was astonished at  the complexity of
the children's song.

"A national pastime," Silk said. "Rivans are very much involved in music. I
suppose it helps relieve  the boredom. I'd hate to offend your Majesty, but
your kingdom's  a tedious sort of place." He looked  around. "I have an old
friend  who  lives not  far  from  here. Why  don't  we pay  him a  visit?"

He  led them  down a  long stairway to  the street  below. Not far  up that
street a large building  stood solidly on the downhill side. Silk strode up
to the door and  knocked. After a moment, a Rivan in a burn-spotted leather
smock answered.  "Radek, old friend,"  he said with a  certain surprise. "I
haven't seen you in years."

"Torgan." Silk grinned at  him. "I thought I'd stop by and see how you were
doing."

"Come in, come in," Torgan said, opening the door wider.

"You've expanded things a bit, I see," Silk noticed, looking around.

"The  market's been  good  to me,"  Torgan replied  modestly.  "The perfume
makers  in Tol Borune  are buying just  about any  kind of bottle  they can
get." The  Rivan was a solid-looking man  with iron-gray hair and strangely
rounded  and  rosy  cheeks.  He glanced  curiously  at  Garion and  frowned
slightly as if trying to remember something. Garion turned to examine a row
of delicate little glass  bottles standing neatly on a nearby table, trying
to keep his face turned away.

"You're    concentrating   on    bottle    making   then?"    Silk   asked.

"Oh, we  still try  to turn out  a few good  pieces," Torgan  replied a bit
ruefully. "I've  got an apprentice who's an absolute  genius. I have to let
him spend  a certain amount of  time on his own work.  I'm afraid that if I
kept him  blowing bottles all day, he'd leave  me." The glassmaker opened a
cabinet and  carefully took out  a small velvet-wrapped bundle.  "This is a
piece of his work," he said, folding back the cloth.

It was  a crystal  wren, wings half spread,  and it was perched  on a leafy
twig with  buds at its tip. The entire piece was  so detailed that even the
individual feathers were clearly visible. "Amazing," Silk gasped, examining
the glass  bird. "This is exquisite,  Torgan. How did he  get the colors so
perfect?"

"I have no idea,"  Torgan admitted. "He doesn't even measure when he mixes,
and the colors always come out exactly right. As I said, he's a genius." He
carefully rewrapped  the crystal  bird and placed  it back in  the cabinet.

There were  living quarters behind the workshop,  and the rooms were filled
with  warmth and  affection and  vibrant colors. Brightly  colored cushions
were everywhere,  and paintings hung  on the walls in  every room. Torgan's
apprentices seemed to be  not so much workers as members of his family, and
his  eldest daughter  played for  them as  they concentrated on  the molten
glass, her fingers touching the strings of her harp in cascading waterfalls
of music.

"It's so unlike the outside," Lelldorin observed, his face puzzled.

"What's that?" Silk asked him.

"The outside is so  grim - so stiff and gray - but once you come inside the
building, it's all warmth and color."

Torgan  smiled.  "It's  something   outsiders  don't  expect,"  he  agreed.

"Our houses are very  much like ourselves. Out of necessity, the outside is
bleak. The  city of  Riva was built to  defend the Orb, and  every house is
part of the overall fortifications. We can't change the outside, but inside
we have art and  poetry and music. We ourselves wear the gray cloak. It's a
useful  garment  - woven  from  the wool  of  goats -  light, warm,  nearly
waterproof - but it  won't accept dye, so it's always gray. But even though
we're  gray on  the  outside, that  doesn't mean  that we  have no  love of
beauty."

The more  Garion thought about that, the more  he began to understand these
bleak-appearing islanders. The stiff  reserve of the graycloaked Rivans was
a  face they  presented to  the world.  Behind that  face, however,  was an
altogether different kind of people.

The apprentices for the  most part were blowing the delicate little bottles
that  were the  major  item in  the trade  with the  perfume makers  of Tol
Borune.  One apprentice,  however,  worked alone,  fashioning a  glass ship
cresting a  crystal wave.  He was a  sandy-haired young man  with an intent
expression.  When he  looked  up from  his work  and  saw Garion,  his eyes
widened,   but  he   lowered   his  head   quickly  to   his   work  again.

Back at the front of the shop as they were preparing to leave, Garion asked
to look once more  at the delicate glass bird perched on its gleaming twig.
The piece was so beautiful that it made his heart ache.

"Does it please your Majesty?" It was the young apprentice, who had quietly
entered from the workroom.  He spoke softly. "I was in the square yesterday
when Brand  introduced you to the people,"  he explained. "I recognized you
as soon as I saw you."

"What's your name?" Garion asked curiously.

"Joran, your Majesty," the apprentice replied.

"Do  you  suppose  we  could  skip  the 'Majesties'?"  Garion  said  rather
plaintively. "I'm  not really comfortable with that  sort of thing yet. The
whole business came as a complete surprise to me."

Joran grinned at him.  "There are all kinds of rumors in the city. They say
you  were raised  by Belgarath  the Sorcerer  in his  tower in the  Vale of
Aldur."

"Actually I  was raised in Sendaria by  my Aunt Pol, Belgarath's daughter."

"Polgara the  Sorceress?" Joran  looked impressed. "Is she  as beautiful as
men say she is?"

"I've always thought so."

"Can she really turn herself into a dragon?"

"I suppose  she could if she wanted to,"  Garion admitted, "but she prefers
the shape of an owl. She loves birds for some reason - and birds go wild at
the sight of her. They talk to her all the time."

"What an amazing thing,"  Joran marvelled. "I'd give anything to be able to
meet her."  He pursed his  lips thoughtfully, hesitating a  moment. "Do you
think  she'd like  this  little thing?"  he blurted  finally,  touching the
crystal wren.

"Like it?" Garion said. "She'd love it."

"Would you give it to her for me?"

"Joran!" Garion  was startled  at the idea.  "I couldn't take  it. It's too
valuable, and I don't have any money to pay you for it."

Joran smiled  shyly. "It's only glass," he pointed  out, "and glass is only
melted sand-and sand's the  cheapest thing in the world. If you think she'd
like it, I'd really  like for her to have it. Would you  take it to her for
me  -   please?  Tell  her   it's  a  gift  from   Joran  the  glassmaker."

"I  will, Joran,"  Garion  promised, impulsively  clasping the  young man's
hand. "I'll be proud to carry it to her for you."

"I'll wrap it," Joran  said then. "It's not good for glass to go out in the
cold from  a warm room." He reached for the  piece of velvet, then stopped.
"I'm  not being  entirely  honest with  you,"  he admitted,  looking a  bit
guilty. "The wren's a  very good piece, and if the nobles up at the Citadel
see it,  they might  want me to  make other things  for them. I  need a few
commissions if I'm ever going to open my own shop, and-" He glanced once at
Torgan's daughter, his heart in his eyes.

"-And you  can't get  married until you've established  your own business?"
Garion suggested.

"Your   Majesty  will   be  a   very  wise   king,"  Joran   said  gravely.

"If I can get  past all the blunders I'll make during the first few weeks,"
Garion added ruefully.

Later  that afternoon  he delivered  the crystal  bird to  Aunt Pol  in her
private apartment.

"What's    this?"   she    asked,   taking   the    cloth-wrapped   object.

"It's a  present for you from  a young glassmaker I  met down in the city,"
Garion replied.  "He insisted that I  give it to you.  His name's Joran. Be
careful. I think it's kind of fragile."

Aunt Pol gently unwrapped the crystal piece. Her eyes slowly widened as she
stared at  the exquisitely wrought bird.  "Oh, Garion," she murmured, "it's
the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"He's awfully  good," Garion  told her. "He  works for a  glassmaker called
Torgan, and Torgan says he's a genius. He wants to meet you."

"And I want to meet him," she breathed, her eyes lost in the glowing detail
of  the glass figure.  Then she carefully  set the  crystal wren down  on a
table. Her  hands were trembling and her glorious  eyes were full of tears.

"What's wrong, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked her, slightly alarmed.

"Nothing, Garion," she replied. "Nothing at all."

"Why are you crying then?"

"You'd never understand, dear,"  she told him. Then she put her arms around
him and pulled him to her in an almost fierce embrace.

The coronation took place  at noon the following day. The Hall of the Rivan
King was  full to overflowing with  nobles and royalty, and  the city below
was alive with the sound of bells.

Garion could  never actually remember  very much of his  coronation. He did
remember  that the  ermine-bordered cape  was hot  and that the  plain gold
crown the  Rivan Deacon placed on  his head was very  heavy. What stood out
most in his  mind was the way the Orb of Aldur  filled the entire Hall with
an intense blue light  that grew brighter and brighter as he approached the
throne and overwhelmed his  ears with that strange, exultant song he always
seemed to  hear whenever he came  near it. The song of  the Orb was so loud
that he scarcely heard the great cheer that greeted him as he turned, robed
and  crowned,  to  face   the  throng  in  the  Hall  of  the  Rivan  King.

He did, however, hear one voice very clearly.

"Hail,  Belgarion,   "  the  voice  in  his   mind  said  quietly  to  him.





Chapter Thirteen

KING BELGARION SAT somewhat disconsolately on his throne in the Hall of the
Rivan  King,  listening  to  the  endless,  droning voice  of  Valgon,  the
Tolnedran ambassador.  It had not been an easy  time for Garion. There were
so many  things he did  not know how to  do. For one thing,  he was totally
incapable  of  giving  orders;  for  another,  he discovered  that  he  had
absolutely no time to  himself and that he had not the faintest idea of how
to dismiss  the servants who continually hovered  near him. He was followed
wherever he went, and  he had even given up trying to catch the overzealous
bodyguard or  valet or messenger  who was always in  the passageways behind
him.

His  friends seemed  uncomfortable in  his presence  and they  persisted in
calling him  "your Majesty" no matter how many times  he asked them not to.
He didn't  feel any different, and his mirror told  him that he didn't look
any different, but everyone  behaved as if he had changed somehow. The look
of relief  that passed over their faces each time  he left injured him, and
he retreated  into a  kind of protective  shell, nursing his  loneliness in
silence.

Aunt  Pol stood  continually at his  side now,  but there was  a difference
there as well. Before, he had always been an adjunct to her, but now it was
the   other   way   around,   and   that   seemed   profoundly   unnatural.

"The  proposal,  if  your  Majesty  will  forgive  my saying  so,  is  most
generous,"  Valgon observed,  concluding his  reading of the  latest treaty
offered by Ran Borune.  The Tolnedran ambassador was a sardonic man with an
aquiline nose and an  aristocratic bearing. He was a Honethite, a member of
that  family which  had  founded the  Empire  and from  which the  Imperial
dynasties  had sprung,  and he  had a  scarcely concealed contempt  for all
Alorns. Valgon was a  continual thorn in Garion's side. Hardly a day passed
that some  new treaty or trade  agreement did not arrive  from the Emperor.
Garion had  quickly perceived that the  Tolnedrans were desperately nervous
about the  fact that they did  not have his signature  on a single piece of
parchment, and they were proceeding on the theory that if they kept shoving
documents in front of a man, eventually he would sign something just to get
them to leave him alone.

Garion's  counterstrategy was  very  simple; he  refused to  sign anything.

"It's  exactly the same  as the one  they offered  last week, "  Aunt Pol's
voice observed  in the  silence of his  mind. "All they did  was switch the
clauses around and change a few words. Tell him no."

Garion looked  at the smug  ambassador with something very  close to active
dislike.   "Totally   out   of   the   question,"   he   replied   shortly.

Valgon began to protest,  but Garion cut him short. "It's identical to last
week's proposal,  Valgon, and we both know it. The  answer was no then, and
it's  still no.  I will not  give Tolnedra  preferred status in  trade with
Riva; I  will not  agree to ask  Ran Borune's permission before  I sign any
agreement with any other nation; and I most certainly will not agree to any
modification  of the  terms of  the Accords  of Vo  Mimbre. Please  ask Ran
Borune  not  to  pester  me any  more  until  he's  ready  to talk  sense."

"Your  Majesty!" Valgon  sounded  shocked. "One  does not  speak so  to the
Emperor of Tolnedra."

"I'll  speak  any way  I  please,"  Garion told  him.  "You have  my -  our
permission to leave."

"Your Majesty-"

"You're dismissed, Valgon," Garion cut him off.

The ambassador  drew himself up,  bowed coldly, and stalked  from the Hall.

"Not bad," King Anheg  drawled from the partially concealed embrasure where
he  and the  other kings  generally gathered.  The presence of  these royal
onlookers made  Garion perpetually  uneasy. He knew they  were watching his
every move,  judging, evaluating  his decisions, his manner,  his words. He
knew he was bound  to make mistakes during these first few months, and he'd
have greatly  preferred to make them without an  audience, but how could he
tell a group of sovereign kings that he would prefer not to be the absolute
center of their attention?

"A trifle blunt, though, wouldn't you say?" King Fulrach suggested.

"He'll  learn  to  be  more diplomatic  in  time,"  King Rhodar  predicted.

"I expect that Ran Borune will find this directness refreshing just as soon
as he  recovers from the fit of apoplexy our  Belgarion's reply is going to
give him."

The  assembled kings  and nobles  all laughed  at King Rhodar's  sally, and
Garion tried without success to keep from blushing.

"Do they have to  do that?" he whispered furiously to Aunt Pol. "Every time
I so much as hiccup, I get all this commentary."

"Don't  be surly,  dear," she  replied calmly.  "It was a  trifle impolite,
though. Are  you really  sure you want  to take that tone  with your future
father-in-law?"

That  was something  of which  Garion most  definitely did  not wish  to be
reminded. The  Princess Ce'Nedra had still not  forgiven him for his sudden
elevation, and  Garion was  having grave doubts  about the whole  notion of
marrying her. Much  as he liked her - and he did  like her - he regretfully
concluded that Ce'Nedra would  not make him a good wife. She was clever and
spoiled, and  she had a streak of stubbornness in her  nature as wide as an
oxcart. Garion was fairly certain that she would take a perverse delight in
making his life as miserable as she possibly could. As he sat on his throne
listening to the jocular comments of the Alorn Kings, he began to wish that
he had never heard of the Orb.

As always,  the thought of the jewel made him glance  up to where it glowed
on  the pommel  of the massive  sword hanging  above the throne.  There was
something so irritatingly smug  about the way it glowed each time he sat on
the throne. It always seemed to be congratulating itselfas if he, Belgarion
of Riva,  were somehow its own private  creation. Garion did not understand
the  Orb. There  was  an awareness  about it;  he knew  that. His  mind had
tentatively touched that awareness and then had carefully retreated. Garion
had been touched on occasion by the minds of Gods, but the consciousness of
the Orb was altogether different. There was a power in it he could not even
begin to  comprehend. More than  that, its attachment for  him seemed quite
irrational. Garion knew himself, and he was painfully aware that he was not
that  lovable. But  each  time he  came near  it,  it would  begin  to glow
insufferably, and  his mind would  fill with that strange,  soaring song he
had first  heard in  Ctuchik's turret. The  song of the  Orb was  a kind of
compelling invitation.  Garion knew that if he should  take it up, its will
would  join with  his, and there  would be  nothing that between  them they
could not  do. Torak had raised the Orb and had  cracked the world with it.
Garion knew  that if he chose, he could raise the  Orb and mend that crack.
More alarming was the  fact that as soon as the notion occurred to him, the
Orb began  to provide him with precise instructions on  how to go about it.

"Pay attention, Garion, " Aunt Pol's voice said to him.

The business of the morning, however, was very nearly completed. There were
a  few other  petitions  and a  peculiar  note of  congratulation that  had
arrived  that morning  from Nyissa.  The tone  of the note  was tentatively
conciliatory, and it appeared over the signature of Sadi the eunuch. Garion
decided that  he wanted to think things  through rather carefully before he
drafted a reply. The memory of what had happened in Salmissra's throne room
still bothered  him, and  he was not  entirely sure he  wanted to normalize
relations with the snake-people just yet.

Then, since  there was  no further court  business, he excused  himself and
left  the Hall.  His ermine-trimmed robe  was very  hot, and the  crown was
beginning to  give him a headache.  He most definitely wanted  to return to
his apartment and change clothes.

The guards  at the  side door to  the Hall bowed respectfully  as he passed
them and  drew up  into formation to  accompany him. "I'm  not really going
anyplace," Garion told the  sergeant in charge. "Just back to my rooms, and
I  know  the  way.  Why  don't  you  and  your  men go  have  some  lunch?"

"Your  Majesty is  very  kind," the  sergeant  replied. "Will  you need  us
later?"

"I'm not sure. I'll send somebody to let you know."

The  sergeant bowed  again,  and Garion  went  on along  the dimly  lighted
corridor. He had found this passageway about two days after his coronation.
It was  relatively unused and it  was the most direct  route from the royal
apartment to the throne room. Garion liked it because he could follow it to
and from  the great  Hall with a  minimum of pomp and  ceremony. There were
only a few doors, and the candles on the walls were spaced far enough apart
to keep  the light subdued. The dimness  seemed comforting for some reason,
almost as if it restored in some measure his anonymity.

He walked along, lost in thought. There were so many things to worry about.
The impending  war between the West and  the Angarak kingdoms was uppermost
in his  mind. He,  as Overlord of the  West, would be expected  to lead the
West; and Kal Torak, awakened from his slumber, would come against him with
the  multitudes  of Angarak.  How  could  he possibly  face  so ternble  an
adversary? The  very name of Torak chilled him, and  what did he know about
armies and battles? Inevitably, he would blunder, and Torak would smash all
the forces of the West with one mailed fist.

Not even  sorcery could  help him. His  own power was still  too untried to
risk a confrontation with  Torak. Aunt Pol would do her best to aid him, of
course,  but  without  Belgarath  they  had  little hope  of  success;  and
Belgarath  had still  not given  any indication  that his collapse  had not
permanently impaired his abilities.

Garion did  not want to think  about that any more,  but his other problems
were nearly  as bad. Very soon  he was going to have  to come to grips with
Ce'Nedra's adamant refusal to  make peace. If she would only be reasonable,
Garion was  sure that the marginal difference in  their rank would not make
all that much difference.  He liked Ce'Nedra. He was even prepared to admit
that his  feelings for her went  quite a bit deeper  than that. She could -
usually when  she wanted something - be  absolutely adorable. If they could
just get  past this one minor  problem, things might turn  out rather well.
That possibility brightened his  thoughts considerably. Musing about it, he
continued on down the corridor.

He had  gone only a few  more yards when he  heard that furtive step behind
him  again. He sighed,  wishing that  his everpresent attendant  would find
some  other amusement.  Then  he shrugged  and, deep  in thought  about the
Nyissan question, he continued on along the corridor.

The warning  was quite sharp and came at the  last instant. "Look outl" the
voice in his mind barked at him. Not knowing exactly why, not even actually
thinking about it, Garion  reacted instantly, diving headlong to the floor.
His crown  went rolling as, with a great shower  of sparks, a thrown dagger
clashed  into the  stone wall  and went  bouncing and skittering  along the
flagstones. Garion swore, rolled  quickly and came to his feet with his own
dagger in  his hand. Outraged and infuriated by  this sudden attack, he ran
back  along  the corridor,  his  erminetrimmed robe  flapping and  tangling
cumbersomely around his legs.

He caught  only one or two momentary  glimpses of his gray-cloaked attacker
as  he ran  after the knife  thrower. The  assassin dodged into  a recessed
doorway some  yards down the corridor,  and Garion heard a  heavy door slam
behind the fleeing man.  When he reached the door and wrenched it open, his
dagger still in his fist, he found only another long, dim passageway. There
was no one in sight.

His hands  were shaking,  but it was  more from anger than  from fright. He
briefly  considered calling  the guards,  but almost  immediately dismissed
that idea.  To continue  following the assailant  was, the more  he thought
about  it, even  more  unwise. He  had no  weapon but  his dagger,  and the
possibility of  meeting someone armed  with a sword occurred  to him. There
might  even be  more than one  involved in  this business, and  these dimly
lighted and  deserted corridors  were most certainly  not a good  place for
confrontations.

As he started to close the door, something caught his eye. A small scrap of
gray wool lay on the floor just at the edge of the door frame. Garion bent,
picked it  up and carried it  over to one of  the candles hanging along the
wall. The bit of  wool was no more than two fingers wide and seemed to have
been torn  from the corner of  a gray Rivan cloak.  In his haste to escape,
the assassin  had, Garion  surmised, inadvertently slammed the  door on his
own cape,  and then  had ripped off  this fragment in  his flight. Garion's
eyes narrowed and he turned and hurried back up the corridor, stooping once
to  retrieve his  crown and  again to  pick up  his assailant's  dagger. He
looked around  once. The hallway was empty  and somehow threatening. If the
unknown knife thrower were  to return with three or four companions, things
could turn unpleasant. All  things considered, it might be best to get back
to his own apartments  as quickly as possible - and to lock his door. Since
there was  no one around to witness any lack  of dignity, Garion lifted the
skirts  of   his  royal  robe   and  bolted  like  a   rabbit  for  safety.

He  reached his  own door, jerked  it open  and jumped inside,  closing and
locking it  behind him. He stood  with his ear against  the door, listening
for any sounds of pursuit.

"Is something wrong, your Majesty?"

Garion almost  jumped out  of his skin.  He whirled to  confront his valet,
whose eyes widened as  he saw the daggers in the king's hands. "Uh-nothing"
he replied  quickly, trying  to cover his  confusion. "Help me  out of this
thing." He  struggled with the fastenings of his  robe. His hands seemed to
be full  of daggers and crowns.  With a negligent flip  he tossed his crown
into a  nearby chair, sheathed his  own dagger and then  carefully laid the
other  knife   and  the  scrap  of  wool   cloth  on  the  polished  table.

The valet  helped him to remove the robe and  then carefully folded it over
his arm. "Would your  Majesty like to have me get rid of these for you?" he
asked, looking a bit distastefully at the dagger and the bit of wool on the
table.

"No," Garion told him  firmly. Then a thought occurred to him. "Do you know
where my sword is?" he asked.

"Your Majesty's sword hangs in the throne room," the valet replied.

"Not that  one," Garion said. "The other one. The one  I was wearing when I
first came here."

"I suppose I could find it," the valet answered a bit dubiously.

"Do that,"  Garion said. "I  think I'd like to  have it where I  can get my
hands on it. And  please see if you can find Lelldorin of Wildantor for me.
I need to talk to him."

"At once, your Majesty."  The valet bowed and quietly left the room. Garion
took up the dagger and the scrap of cloth and examined both rather closely.
The dagger  was just a commonplace  knife, heavy, sturdily made  and with a
wirebound hilt. It bore  no ornaments or identifying marks of any kind. Its
tip  was slightly  bent, the  result of  its contact  with the  stone wall.
Whoever had  thrown it had thrown very  hard. Garion developed a definitely
uncomfortable  sensation  between his  shoulder  blades.  The dagger  would
probably not  be very useful. There  were undoubtedly a hundred  like it in
the  Citadel. The wool  scrap, on the  other hand,  might prove to  be very
valuable. Somewhere  in this fortress, there  was a man with  the corner of
his cloak  torn off.  The torn cloak  and this little piece  of cloth would
very likely match rather closely.

About a half an hour later Lelldorin arrived. "You sent for me, Garion?" he
asked.

"Sit down, Lelldorin," Garion  told his friend, then pointedly waited until
the valet left  the room. "I think I've got a little  bit of a problem," he
said then,  sprawling deeper  in the chair  by the table. "I  wondered if I
might ask your help."

"You know  you don't have to ask, Garion,"  the earnest young Asturian told
him.

"This has  to be  just between the  two of us," Garion  cautioned. "I don't
want anyone else to know."

"My word of honor on it," Lelldorin replied instantly.

Garion slid the dagger  across the table to his friend. "A little while ago
when I was on my way back here, somebody threw this at me."

Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide. "Treason?" he gasped. "Either that
or something personal," Garion replied. "I don't know what it's all about."

"You  must alert  your guards,"  Lelldorin declared,  jumping to  his feet.

"No," Garion answered firmly. "If I do that, they'll lock me up entirely. I
don't have  very much  freedom left at all,  and I don't want  to lose it."

"Did you see him at all?" Lelldorin asked, sitting down again and examining
the dagger.

"Just his back. He was wearing one of those gray cloaks."

"All Rivan wear gray cloaks, Garion."

"We do have something  to work with, though." Garion took the scrap of wool
out from under his  tunic. "After he threw the knife, he ran through a door
and slammed  it shut behind him.  He caught his cloak  in the door and this
got ripped off."

Lelldorin examined  the bit of cloth.  "It looks like a  corner," he noted.

"That's what I think,  too," Garion agreed. "If we both keep our eyes open,
we might just happen  to see somebody with the corner of his cloak missing.
Then, if we can get our hands on his cloak, we might be able to see if this
piece matches."

Lelldorin  nodded his  agreement, his  face hardening.  "When we  find him,
though, I want to deal with him. A king isn't supposed to become personally
involved in that sort of thing."

"I might  decide to suspend the  rules," Garion said grimly.  "I don't like
having knives thrown at me. But let's find out who it is first."

"I'll start  at once," Lelldorin said,  rising quickly. "I'll examine every
corner  of every  cloak  in Riva  if I  have to.  We'll find  this traitor,
Garion. I promise you."

Garion felt  better after that, but it was still a  wary young king who, in
the  company of  a detachment of  guards, went  late that afternoon  to the
private apartments  of the Rivan  Warder. He looked about  constantly as he
walked, and his hand was never far from the hilt of the sword at his waist.

He found Brand seated before a large harp. The Warder's big hands seemed to
caress the strings of the instrument, bringing forth a plaintively rippling
melody. The big, grim  man's face was soft and reflective as he played, and
Garion  found that  the music  was even  more beautiful  because it  was so
unexpected.

"You play  very well, my Lord,"  he said respectfully as  the last notes of
the song lingered in the strings.

"I play  often, your  Majesty," Brand replied.  "Sometimes as I  play I can
even forget that  my wife is no longer with me." He  rose from the chair in
front of the harp  and squared his shoulders, all softness going out of his
face. "How may I serve you, King Belgarion?"

Garion cleared  his throat a  trifle nervously. "I'm probably  not going to
say this very well," he admitted, "but please take it the way I mean it and
not the way it might come out."

"Certainly, your Majesty."

"I didn't  ask for all this,  you know," Garion began  with a vague gesture
that took  in the entire Citadel. "The crown, I mean,  and being king - all
of it. I was really pretty happy the way I was."

"Yes, your Majesty?"

"What I'm  trying to  get at is  - well -  you were the ruler  here in Riva
until I came along."

Brand nodded soberly.

"I  didn't really  want to  be king,"  Garion rushed  on, "and  I certainly
didn't want to push you out of your position."

Brand  looked at  him, and  then he  slowly smiled.  "I'd wondered  why you
seemed  so uneasy  whenever I  came into  the room,  your Majesty.  Is that
what's been making you uncomfortable?"

Mutely, Garion nodded.

"You don't  really know  us yet, Belgarion,"  Brand told him.  "You've only
been here for a  little more than a month. We're a peculiar sort of people.
For  over three  thousand years  we've been  protecting the Orb  ever since
Iron-grip came to this island. That's why we exist, and I think that one of
the things we've lost along the way is that sense of self other men seem to
feel is so important. Do you know why I'm called Brand?"

"I never really thought about it," Garion admitted.

"I do have another name, of course," Brand said, "but I'm not supposed ever
to mention it. Each  Warder has been called Brand so that there could never
be any sense of  personal glory in the office. We serve the Orb; that's our
only purpose. To be  quite honest with you, I'm really rather glad you came
when  you did.  It was  getting close to  the time  when I was  supposed to
choose my  successor -  with the help of  the Orb, of course.  But I didn't
have the faintest idea whom to choose. Your arrival has relieved me of that
task."

"We can be friends, then?"

"I think we already  are, Belgarion," Brand replied gravely. "We both serve
the same master, and that always brings men close together."

Garion hesitated. "Am I doing all right?" he blurted.

Brand considered that. "Some  of the things you've done weren't exactly the
way I  might have  done them, but  that's to be expected.  Rhodar and Anheg
don't  always  do things  the  same  way either.  Each  of us  has his  own
particular manner."

"They make  fun of me, don't  they - Anheg, Rhodar,  and the others. I hear
all the clever remarks every time I make a decision."

"I  wouldn't worry  too  much about  that, Belgarion.  They're  Alorns, and
Alorns don't  take kings very seriously.  They make fun of  each other too,
you know.  You could almost say that as  long as they're joking, everything
is all right. If  they suddenly become very serious and formal, then you'll
know that you're in trouble."

"I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way," Garion admitted.

"You'll get used to it in time," Brand assured him.

Garion felt  much better after his conversation  with Brand. In the company
of his  guards he  started back toward  the royal apartments;  but part way
there, he  changed his mind and went looking for  Aunt Po1 instead. When he
entered her rooms, his  cousin Adara was sitting quietly with her, watching
as Aunt Pol carefully  mended one of Garion's old tunics. The girl rose and
curtsied formally.

"Please Adara," he said in a pained voice, "don't do that when we're alone.
I see  enough of  it out there." He  gestured in the direction  of the more
public parts of the building.

"Whatever your Majesty wishes," she replied.

"And don't call me that. I'm still just Garion."

She looked gravely at  him with her calm, beautiful eyes. "No, cousin," she
disagreed, "you'll never be `just Garion' any more."

He sighed as the truth of that struck his heart.

"If you'll excuse me,"  she said then, "I must go attend Queen Silar. She's
a  bit   unwell,  and  she  says   it  comforts  her  to   have  me  near."

"It  comforts all  of us when  you're near,"  Garion told her  without even
thinking about it.

She smiled at him fondly.

"There might be some hope for him after all," Aunt Pol observed, her needle
busy.

Adara looked at Garion.  "He has never really been that bad, Lady Polgara,"
she said. She inclined her head toward them both and quietly left the room.

Garion  wandered around  for a few  moments and  then flung himself  into a
chair. A  great deal  had happened that  day, and he felt  suddenly at odds
with the whole world.

Aunt Pol continued to sew.

"Why are  you doing that?"  Garion demanded finally. "I'll  never wear that
old thing again."

"It needs fixing, dear," she told him placidly.

"There are a hundred people around who could do it for you."

"I prefer to do it myself."

"Put it down and talk to me."

She set  the tunic aside and looked at him  inquiringly. "And what did your
Majesty wish to discuss?" she inquired.

"Aunt Pol!" Garion's voice was stricken. "Not you too."

"Don't  give orders  then,  dear," she  recommended, picking  up  the tunic
again.

Garion watched her at her sewing for a few moments, not really knowing what
to say.  A strange thought occurred  to him. "Why are  you doing that, Aunt
Pol?" he  asked, really curious this time.  "Probably nobody'll ever use it
again, so you're just wasting time on it."

"It's my time, dear,"  she reminded him. She looked up from her sewing, her
eyes unreadable.  Then, without explanation she held  up the tunic with one
hand and ran the  forefinger of her other hand carefully up the rip. Garion
felt a  very light surge, and the sound was only  a whisper. The rip mended
itself before  his eyes, rewoven as  if it had never  existed. "Now you can
see  how   completely  useless  mending  it   really  is,"  she  told  him.

"Why do you do it then?"

"Because I  like to sew, dear,"  she replied. With a  sharp little jerk she
ripped the  tunic again. Then she picked up  her needle and patiently began
repairing the  rip. "Sewing keeps the  hands and eyes busy,  but leaves the
mind free for other things. It's very relaxing."

"Sometimes you're awfully complicated, Aunt Pol."

"Yes, dear. I know."

Garion paced  about for  a bit, then  suddenly knelt beside  her chair and,
pushing her sewing aside,  he put his head into her lap. "Oh, Aunt Pol," he
said, very close to tears.

"What's the matter, dear?" she asked, carefully smoothing his hair.

"I'm so lonely."

"Is that all?"

He lifted  his head  and stared at  her incredulously. He  had not expected
that.

"Everyone is  lonely, dear," she  explained, drawing him close  to her. "We
touch other people only briefly, then we're alone again. You'll get used to
it in time."

"Nobody will  talk to me now - not the way  they did before. They're always
bowing and saying 'Your Majesty' to me."

"You are the king, after all," she replied.

"But I don't want to be."

"That's too  bad. It's the destiny  of your family, so  there's not a thing
you can do about it. Did anyone ever tell you about Prince Gared?"

"I don't think so. Who was he?"

"He was the only  survivor when the Nyissan assassins killed King Gorek and
his family. He escaped by throwing himself into the sea."

"How old was he?"

"Six. He  was a very brave child. Everyone thought  that he had drowned and
that his body had been washed out to sea. Your grandfather and I encouraged
that  belief.  For  thirteen  hundred  years we've  hidden  Prince  Gared's
descendants.  For  generations  they've  lived  out their  lives  in  quiet
obscurity for  the single purpose of  bringing you to the  throne - and now
you say that you don't want to be king?"

"I  don't know  any  of those  people," he  said sullenly.  He knew  he was
behaving badly, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

"Would it help if you did know them - some of them, anyway?"

The question baffled him.

"Perhaps it  might," she decided. She  laid her sewing aside  and stood up,
drawing him  to his feet. "Come  with me," she told him  and led him to the
tall window that looked  out over the city below. There was a small balcony
outside; in one corner  where a rain-gutter had cracked, there had built up
during the  fall and winter a  sheet of shiny black  ice, curving down over
the railing and spreading out on the balcony floor.

Aunt Pol  unlatched the window and it swung open,  admitting a blast of icy
air that made the  candles dance. "Look directly into the ice, Garion," she
told  him,  pointing at  the  glittering  blackness. "Look  deep into  it."

He did  as she told him  and felt the force of  her mind at work. Something
was in  the ice - shapeless at first but  emerging slowly and becoming more
and more visible. It was, he saw finally, the figure of a pale blond woman,
quite lovely  and with a warm smile on her lips.  She seemed young, and her
eyes were  directly on Garion's face. "My baby,"  a voice seemed to whisper
to him. "My little Garion."

Garion began to tremble violently. "Mother?" he gasped.

"So tall now," the whisper continued. "Almost a man."

"And already a king,  Ildera," Aunt Pol told the phantom in a gentle voice.

"Then he was the chosen one," the ghost of Garion's mother exulted. "I knew
it. I could feel it when I carried him under my heart."

A second  shape had begun to  appear beside the first.  It was a tall young
man with  dark hair but a  strangely familiar face. Garion  clearly saw its
resemblance to his own.  "Hail Belgarion, my son," the second shape said to
him.

"Father," Garion replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Our blessings,  Garion," the second ghost said  as the two figures started
to fade.

"I avenged you, father," Garion called after them. It seemed important that
they  know  that. He  was  never  sure, however,  if  they  had heard  him.

Aunt Pol was leaning  against the window frame with a look of exhaustion on
her face.

"Are you all right?" Garion asked her, concerned.

"It's a  very difficult thing to  do, dear," she told  him, passing a weary
hand over her face.

But there  was yet  another flicker within  the depths of the  ice, and the
familiar shape  of the blue wolf appeared-the  one who had joined Belgarath
in the  fight with Grul the  Eldrak in the mountains  of Ulgo. The wolf sat
looking at  them for a moment,  then flickered briefly into  the shape of a
snowy owl  and finally  became a tawny-haired  woman with golden  eyes. Her
face was  so like  Aunt Pol's that  Garion could not  help glancing quickly
back and forth to compare them.

"You left  it open, Polgara," the golden-eyed  woman said gently. Her voice
was as warm and soft as a summer evening.

"Yes,   mother,"  Aunt  Pol   replied.  "I'll   close  it  in   a  moment."

"It's all  right, Polgara," the wolf  woman told her daughter.  "It gave me
the chance  to meet him." She looked directly  into Garion's face. "A touch
or two  is still  there," she observed.  "A bit about  the eyes  and in the
shape of the jaw. Does he know?"

"Not everything, mother," Aunt Pol answered.

"Perhaps it's as well," Poledra noted.

Once again  another figure emerged out  of the dark depths  of the ice. The
second woman  had hair like sunlight, and her face  was even more like Aunt
Pol's   than   Poledra's.   "Polgara,    my   dear   sister,"   she   said.

"Beldaran," Aunt Pol responded in a voice overwhelmed with love.

"And Belgarion,"  Garion's ultimate grandmother said,  "the final flower of
my love and Riva's."

"Our blessings  also, Belgarion," Poledra declared.  "Farewell for now, but
know that we love thee." And then the two were gone.

"Does that  help?" Aunt Pol asked him, her voice  deep with emotion and her
eyes filled with tears.

Garion was too stunned by what he had just seen and heard to answer. Dumbly
he nodded.

"I'm  glad the  effort  wasn't wasted  then," she  said. "Please  close the
window, dear. It's letting the winter in."





Chapter Fourteen

IT WAS  THE first  day of spring,  and King Belgarion of  Riva was terribly
nervous.  He  had watched  the  approach of  Princess Ce'Nedra's  sixteenth
birthday with a steadily mounting anxiety and, now that the day had finally
arrived,  he hovered  on  the very  edge of  panic.  The deep  blue brocade
doublet over which a half dozen tailors had labored for weeks still did not
seem to  feel just right. Somehow it was a  bit tight across the shoulders,
and the  stiff collar scratched  his neck. Moreover, his  gold crown seemed
unusually heavy  on this  particular day, and,  as he fidgeted,  his throne
seemed even more uncomfortable than usual.

The Hall of the Rivan King had been decorated extensively for the occasion,
but even the banners and garlands of pale spring flowers could not mask the
ominous  starkness  of  the  great  throne room.  The  assembled  notables,
however,  chatted and  laughed among  themselves as if  nothing significant
were taking place. Garion  felt rather bitter about their heartless lack of
concern in the face of what was about to happen to him.

Aunt Pol stood at  the left side of his throne, garbed in a new silver gown
and with  a silver circlet about her  hair. Belgarath lounged indolently on
the right,  wearing a new  green doublet which had  already become rumpled.

"Don't   squirm   so   much,   dear,"   Aunt  Pol   told   Garion   calmly.

"That's easy  enough for you to say," Garion  retorted in an accusing tone.

"Try not  to think about it," Belgarath advised. "It will  all be over in a
little while."

Then Brand,  his face seeming even more bleak  than usual, entered the Hall
from the side door  and came to the dais. "There's a Nyissan at the gate of
the  Citadel,  your Majesty,"  he  said  quietly. "He  says  that he's  the
emissary of  Queen Salmissra and  that he's here to  witness the ceremony."

"Isn't that  impossible?" Garion  asked Aunt Pol, startled  by the Warder's
surprising announcement.

"Not  entirely,"  she  replied. "More  likely,  though,  it's a  diplomatic
fiction.  I'd imagine that  the Nyissans  would prefer to  keep Salmissra's
condition a secret."

"What do I do?" Garion asked. Belgarath shrugged.

"Let him in."

"In  here?" Brand's  voice  was shocked.  "A  Nyissan in  the throne  room?
Belgarath, you're not serious."

"Garion is  Overlord of  the West, Brand,"  the old man  replied, "and that
includes Nyissa. I don't  imagine that the snake-people will be much use to
us at any time, but let's be polite, at least."

Brand's  face  went  stiff   with  disapproval.  "What  is  your  Majesty's
decision?" he asked Garion directly.

"Well-" Garion hesitated. "Let him come in, I guess."

"Don't vacillate, Garion," Aunt Pol told him firmly.

"I'm sorry," Garion said quickly.

"And   don't   apologize,"   she   added.   "Kings   do   not   apologize."

He  looked at  her  helplessly. Then  he turned  back  to Brand.  "Tell the
emissary from  Nyissa to join us," he said,  though his tone was placating.

"By the  way, Brand," Belgarath  suggested, "I wouldn't let  anyone get too
excited about this. The Nyissan has ambassadorial status, and it would be a
serious   breach   of   protocol  if   he   were   to  die   unexpectedly."

Brand bowed rather stiffly, turned, and left the Hall.

"Was that really necessary, father?" Aunt Pol asked.

"Old grudges die hard, Pol," Belgarath replied. "Sometimes it's best to get
everything right  out in  front so that there  aren't any misunderstandings
later."

When the emissary of  the Snake Queen entered the Hall, Garion started with
surprise. It was Sadi, the chief eunuch in Salmissra's palace. The thin man
with the  dead-looking eyes  and shaved head wore  the customary iridescent
blue-green  Nyissan  robe, and  he  bowed  sinuously as  he approached  the
throne.  "Greetings  to  his  Majesty,  Belgarion  of  Riva,  from  Eternal
Salmissra,  Queen  of  the  Snake-People,"  he intoned  in  his  peculiarly
contralto voice.

"Welcome, Sadi," Garion replied formally.

"My queen sends her regards on this happy day," Sadi continued.

"She   didn't   really,   did  she?"   Garion   asked   a  bit   pointedly.

"Not  precisely, your Majesty,"  Sadi admitted  without the least  trace of
embarrassment. "I'm sure she would have, however, if we'd been able to make
her understand what was happening."

"How is  she?" Garion remembered the  dreadful transformation Salmissra had
undergone.

"Difficult,"  Sadi  answered  blandly.   "Of  course  that's  nothing  new.
Fortunately she sleeps for  a week or two after she's been fed. She moulted
last month, and it  made her dreadfully short-tempered." He rolled his eyes
ceilingward. "It was ghastly,"  he murmured. "She bit three servants before
it was over. They all died immediately, of course."

"She's venomous?" Garion was a bit startled at that.

"She's always been venomous, your Majesty."

"That's not the way I mean."

"Forgive my  little joke," Sadi apologized.  "Judging from the reactions of
people she's  bitten, I'd guess that  she's at least ten  times more deadly
than a common cobra."

"Is she  terribly unhappy?"  Garion felt a  strange pity for  the hideously
altered queen.

"That's really rather hard  to say, your Majesty," Sadi replied clinically.
"It's difficult  to tell what a snake's  really feeling, you understand. By
the time she'd learned  to communicate her wishes to us, she seemed to have
become reconciled to her  new form. We feed her and keep her clean. As long
as she  has her mirror and someone to bite  when she's feeling peevish, she
seems quite content."

"She still  looks at herself in the mirror? I  wouldn't think she'd want to
now."

"Our race has a somewhat different view of the serpent, your Majesty," Sadi
explained. "We  find it  a rather attractive  creature, and our  queen is a
splendid-looking snake,  after all. Her  new skin is quite  lovely, and she
seems  very proud of  it." He turned  and bowed  deeply to Aunt  Pol. "Lady
Polgara," he greeted her.

"Sadi," she acknowledged with a brief nod.

"May I  convey to  you the heartfelt  thanks of her  Majesty's government?"

One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows rose inquiringly.

"The government, my Lady - not the queen herself. Your - ah - intervention,
shall we say, has  simplified things in the palace enormously. We no longer
have to  worry about Salmissra's  whims and peculiar appetites.  We rule by
committee and  we hardly  ever find it  necessary to poison  each other any
more.  No one's tried  to poison me  for months.  It's all very  smooth and
civilised in  Sthiss Tor  now." He glanced  briefly at Garion.  "May I also
offer my congratulations on your success with his Majesty? He seems to have
matured  considerably.  He  was  really  very  callow when  last  we  met,"

"Whatever happened  to Issus?"  Garion asked him,  ignoring that particular
observation.

Sadi shrugged.  "Issus? Oh, he's still about, scratching  out a living as a
paid assassin,  probably. I  imagine that one  day we'll find  him floating
facedown in  the river. It's the  sort of end one  expects for someone like
that."

There was  a sudden blare of  trumpets from just beyond  the great doors at
the  back  of the  Hall.  Garion  started nervously,  and  his mouth  quite
suddenly went dry.

The heavy  doors swung  open, and a  double file of  Tolnedran legionnaires
marched in, their breastplates burnished until they shone like mirrors, and
the  tall crimson  plumes  on their  helmets  waving as  they marched.  The
inclusion  of the legionnaires  in the  ceremony had infuriated  Brand. The
Rivan  Warder  had stalked  about  in icy  silence  for days  after he  had
discovered that Garion had granted ambassador Valgon's request for a proper
escort for  Princess Ce'Nedra.  Brand did not  like Tolnedrans, and  he had
been  looking forward  to  witnessing the  pride of  the empire  humbled by
Ce'Nedra's forlorn and solitary entrance into the Hall. The presence of the
legionnaires  spoiled  that,  of  course, and  Brand's  disappointment  and
disapproval had been painfully obvious. As much as Garion wanted to stay on
Brand's good  side, however,  he did not  intend to start  off the official
relationship between  his bride-to-be  and himself by  publicly humiliating
her. Garion  was quite ready to  acknowledge his lack of  education, but he
was not prepared to admit to being that stupid.

When Ce'Nedra  entered, her hand  resting lightly on Valgon's  arm, she was
every inch  an Imperial Princess.  Garion could only gape  at her. Although
the Accords  of Vo Mimbre required that she  present herself in her wedding
gown,  Garion was  totally unprepared  for such Imperial  magnificence. Her
gown was of gold  and white brocade covered with seed pearls, and its train
swept the  floor behind  her. Her flaming  hair was intricately  curled and
cascaded over her left  shoulder like a deep crimson waterfall. Her circlet
of tinted gold held  in place a short veil that did not so much conceal her
face as soften it into luminousness.

She was  tiny and perfect, exquisite beyond belief,  but her eyes were like
little green agates.

She and  Valgon moved at stately  pace down between the  ranks of her tall,
burnished  legionnaires; when  they  reached the  front of  the  Hall, they
stopped.

Brand, sober-faced and imposing,  took his staff of office from Bralon, his
eldest  son, and  rapped sharply  on the  stone floor  with its  butt three
times.  "Her  Imperial  Highness  Ce'Nedra  of the  Tolnedran  Empire,"  he
announced in a deep, booming voice. "Will your Majesty grant her audience?"

"I will receive the  princess," Garion declared, straightening a bit on his
throne.

"The Princess  Ce'Nedra may approach the  throne," Brand proclaimed. Though
his words were ritual  formality, they had obviously been chosen with great
care to make it absolutely clear that Imperial Tolnedra came to the Hall of
the Rivan  King as  a suppliant. Ce'Nedra's  eyes flashed fire,  and Garion
groaned  inwardly. The  little princess,  however, glided to  the appointed
spot before the dais  and curtsied regally. There was no submission in that
gesture.

"The  Princess  has  permission  to  speak,"  Brand boomed.  For  a  brief,
irrational moment Garion wanted to strangle him.

Ce'Nedra  drew herself  up,  her face  as cold  as a  winter sea.  "Thus I,
Ce'Nedra, daughter  to Ran Borune XXIII  and Princess of Imperial Tolnedra,
present  myself  as required  by  treaty and  law  in the  presence of  His
Majesty,  Belgarion of  Riva," she  declared. "And  thus has  the Tolnedran
Empire once more demonstrated her willingness to fulfill her obligations as
set  forth  in  the  Accords  of  Vo  Mimbre. Let  other  kingdoms  witness
Tolnedra's  meticulous response  and  follow her  example in  meeting their
obligations. I declare before these witnesses that I am an unmarried virgin
of  a  suitable  age.  Will  his  Majesty  consent  to take  me  to  wife?"

Garion's reply  had been carefully  thought out. The quiet  inner voice had
suggested a  way to head off years of marital discord.  He rose to his feet
and said, "I, Belgarion,  King of Riva, hereby consent to take the Imperial
Princess Ce'Nedra  to be my wife  and queen. I declare,  moreover, that she
will rule jointly by  my side in Riva and wheresoever else the authority of
our throne may extend."

The gasp  that rippled  through the Hall  was clearly audible,  and Brand's
face went  absolutely white.  The look Ce'Nedra gave  Garion was quizzical,
and her eyes softened slightly.

"Your Majesty  is too kind,"  she responded with a  graceful little curtsy.
Some of the edge  had gone out of her voice, and she threw a quick sidelong
glance  at the  spluttering  Brand. 'Have  I your  Majesty's  permission to
withdraw?" she asked sweetly.

"As  your Highness  wishes,"  Garion replied,  sinking back  down  onto his
throne. He was perspiring heavily.

The princess curtsied again  with a mischievous little twinkle in her eyes,
then turned and left the Hall with her legionnaires drawn up in close order
about her.

As the  great doors boomed shut  behind her, an angry  buzz ran through the
crowd.  The word "outrageous"  seemed to  be the most  frequently repeated.

"This is unheard of, your Majesty," Brand protested.

"Not entirely," Garion replied  defensively. "The throne of Arendia is held
jointly by King Korodullin and Queen Mayaserana." He looked to Mandorallen,
gleaming in his armor, with a mute appeal in his eyes.

"His Majesty speaks truly,  my Lord Brand," Mandorallen declared. "I assure
thee that  our kingdom  suffers not from  the lack of  singularity upon the
throne."

"That's  Arendia,"  Brand  objected.  "This  is Riva.  The  situations  are
entirely different. No Alorn kingdom has ever been ruled by a woman."

"It might  not hurt to  examine the possible advantages  of the situation,"
King Rhodar  suggested. "My own  queen, for example, plays  a somewhat more
significant  role  in  Drasnian   affairs  than  custom  strictly  allows."

With great difficulty Brand regained at least some of his composure. "May I
withdraw, your Majesty?" he asked, his face still livid.

"If  you wish,"  Garion  answered quietly.  It wasn't  going  well. Brand's
conservatism   was  the   one   stumbling  block   he  hadn't   considered.

"It's  an interesting  notion, dear,"  Aunt Pol  said quietly to  him, "but
don't you  think it might have  been better to consult  with someone before
you made it a public declaration?"

"Won't it help to cement relations with the Tolnedrans?"

"Quite  possibly," she  admitted.  "I'm not  saying that  it's a  bad idea,
Garion; I just think  it might have been better to warn a few people first.
What  are you  laughing  at?" she  demanded of  Belgarath, who  was leaning
against the throne convulsed with mirth.

"The Bear-cult's going to have collective apoplexy," he chortled.

Her  eyes widened  slightly.  "Oh, dear,"  she said.  "I'd  forgotten about
them."

"They  aren't going  to  like it  very much,  are they?"  Garion concluded.
"Particularly since Ce'Nedra's a Tolnedran."

"I  think you  can count  on them  to go  up in  flames," the  old sorcerer
replied, still laughing.

In  the days  that followed, the  usually bleak  halls of the  Citadel were
filled with  color as official visitors  and representatives teemed through
them,  chatting,  gossiping,  and  conducting business  in  out-of  the-way
corners.  The rich  and  varied gifts  they  had brought  to celebrate  the
occasion filled several tables  lining one of the walls in the great throne
room.  Garion, however,  was unable to  visit or  to examine the  gifts. He
spent  his  days  in  a room  with  his  advisers  and  with the  Tolnedran
ambassador and his staff  as the details of the official betrothal document
were hammered out.

Valgon had seized on  Garion's break with tradition and was trying to wring
the last  measure of advantage from it,  while Brand was desperately trying
to  add  clauses  and  stipulations to  circumscribe  Ce'Nedra's  authority
rigidly. As  the two haggled back and forth,  Garion found himself more and
more frequently  staring out the window.  The sky over Riva  was an intense
blue, and  puffy white clouds ran  before the wind. The  bleak crags of the
island were touched with  the first green blush of spring. Faintly, carried
by the  wind, the high, clear  voice of a shepherdess  singing to her flock
wafted through the open window. There was a pure, unschooled quality to her
voice, and she sang with no hint of self consciousness as if there were not
a human  ear within a hundred  leagues. Garion sighed as  the last notes of
her  song  died  away  and  then  returned  his attention  to  the  tedious
negotiations.

His attention, however, was divided in those early days of spring. Since he
was unable to pursue the search for the man with the torn cloak himself, he
was forced  to rely on Lelldorin to  press the investigation. Lelldorin was
not  always entirely  reliable, and  the search  for the  would-be assassin
seemed  to fire  the  enthusiastic young  Asturian's imagination.  He crept
about the  Citadel with  dark, sidelong glances,  and reported his  lack of
findings in conspiratorial whispers. Turning things over to Lelldorin might
have been  a mistake, but there had been no real  choice in the matter. Any
of Garion's  other friends would have  immediately raised a general outcry,
and the  entire affair would have been irrevocably  out in the open. Garion
did  not want that.  He was not  prepared to  make any decisions  about the
assassin  until he found  out who had  thrown the  knife and why.  Too many
other things could have  been involved. Only Lelldorin could be relied upon
for  absolute secrecy,  even though  there was  some danger in  turning him
loose in the Citadel  with a license to track someone down. Lelldorin had a
way of  turning simple things into  catastrophes, and Garion worried almost
as  much  about that  as  he did  about  the possibility  of another  knife
hurtling out of the shadows toward his unprotected back.

Among  the visitors  present  for the  betrothal ceremonies  was Ce'Nedra's
cousin  Xera,  who was  present  as  the personal  representative of  Queen
Xantha. Though shy at first, the Dryad soon lost her reserve - particularly
when she found herself  the center of the attention of a cluster of smitten
young noblemen.

The gift of Queen  Xantha to the royal couple was, Garion thought, somewhat
peculiar. Wrapped  in plain  leaves, Xera presented them  with two sprouted
acorns. Ce'Nedra, however, seemed delighted. She insisted upon planting the
two seeds immediately and rushed down to the small private garden adjoining
the royal apartments.

"It's  very  nice,  I  suppose," Garion  commented  dubiously  as he  stood
watching his  princess on her knees in the damp  loam of the garden, busily
preparing the earth to receive Queen Xantha's gift.

Ce'Nedra looked  at him sharply. "I  don't believe your Majesty understands
the significance  of the gift," she said in  that hatefully formal tone she
had assumed with him.

"Stop that,"  Garion told her crossly. "I still have  a name, after all and
I'm almost positive you haven't forgotten it."

"If your Majesty insists," she replied loftily.

"My Majesty does. What's so significant about a couple of nuts?"

She looked at him almost pityingly. "You wouldn't understand."

"Not if you won't take the trouble to explain it to me."

"Very well."  She sounded irntatingly  superior. "The one acorn  is from my
very own tree. The other is from Queen Xantha's."

"So?"

"See how impossibly dense he is," the princess said to her cousin.

"He's not a Dryad, Ce'Nedra," Xera replied calmly.

"Obviously."

Xera  turned to  Garion. "The acorns  are not  really from my  mother," she
explained. "They're gifts from the trees themselves."

"Why  didn't you  tell  me that  in the  first  place?" Garion  demanded of
Ce'Nedra.

She sniffed and returned to her digging.

"While they're still just  young shoots, Ce'Nedra will bind them together,"
Xera  went on.  "The shoots  will intertwine  as they grow,  embracing each
other and  forming a single tree.  It's the Dryad symbol  for marriage. The
two will become one - just as you and Ce'Nedra will."

"That remains to be seen," Ce'Nedra sniffed, trowelling busily in the dirt.

Garion sighed. "I hope the trees are patient."

"Trees are  very patient, Garion," Xera replied.  She made a little gesture
that Ce'Nedra  could not see, and  Garion followed her to  the other end of
the garden.

"She does love you,  you know," Xera told him quietly. "She won't admit it,
of  course,  but she  loves  you.  I know  her  well enough  to see  that."

"Why's she acting the way she is, then?"

"She doesn't like being forced into things, that's all."

"I'm  not   the  one   who's  forcing  her.   Why  take  it   out  on  me?"

"Whom else can she take it out on?"

Garion hadn't  thought of  that. He left  the garden quietly.  Xera's words
gave him some hope  that one of his problems, at least, might eventually be
resolved. Ce'Nedra  would pout and storm for a while,  and then - after she
had  made him  suffer enough  - she  would relent.  Perhaps it  might speed
things along if he suffered a bit more obviously.

The other  problems had  not changed significantly.  He was still  going to
have to  lead an army against Kal Torak; Belgarath  had still given no sign
that his power was  intact; and someone in the Citadel was still, so far as
Garion knew,  sharpening another knife for him. He  sighed and went back to
his own rooms where he could worry in private.

Somewhat  later he received  word that Aunt  Pol wanted  to see him  in her
private apartment.  He went immediately  and found her seated  by the fire,
sewing as  usual. Belgarath, dressed in his shabby  old clothes, sat in one
of the deep, comfortable chairs on the other side of the fire with his feet
up and a tankard in his hand.

"You wanted to see me, Aunt Pol?" Garion inquired as he entered.

"Yes,  dear,"  she  replied.   "Sit  down."  She  looked  at  him  somewhat
critically.  "He still  doesn't look  much like  a king, does  he, father?"

"Give him time, Pol,"  the old man told her. "He hasn't been at it for very
long."

"You both  knew all along, didn't you?" Garion accused  them. "Who I was, I
mean."

"Naturally," Aunt Pol answered in that maddening way of hers.

"Well, if  you'd wanted me to  behave like a king,  you should have told me
about  it. That  way  I'd have  had some  time  to get  used to  the idea."

"It seems  to me  we discussed this  once before," Belgarath  mentioned, "a
long time ago.  If you'll stop and think a bit, I'm  sure you'll be able to
see why we had to keep it a secret."

"Maybe." Garion said it  a bit doubtfully. "All this has happened too fast,
though. I hadn't  even got used to being a sorcerer yet,  and now I have to
be a king, too. It's all got me off balance."

"You're  adaptable,  Garion," Aunt  Pol  told him,  her needle  flickering.

"You'd better give him the amulet, Pol," Belgarath mentioned. "The princess
should be here soon."

"I was just about to, father," she replied, laying aside her sewing.

"What's this?" Garion asked.

"The  princess has  a gift  for you," Aunt  Pol said.  "A ring. It's  a bit
ostentatious, but act suitably pleased."

"Shouldn't I have something to give her in return?"

"I've already  taken care of that, dear." She took  a small velvet box from
the table  beside her chair. "You'll give her this."  She handed the box to
Garion.

Inside  the box  lay  a silver  amulet, a  bit  smaller than  Garion's own.
Represented on its face  in minute and exquisite detail was the likeness of
that huge  tree which stood in solitary splendor in  the center of the Vale
of Aldur. There was a crown woven into the branches. Garion held the amulet
in his right  hand, trying to determine if it had some  of the same kind of
force about  it that  he knew was in  the one he wore.  There was something
there, but it didn't feel at all the same.

"It doesn't seem to be like ours," he concluded.

"It  isn't,"  Belgarath replied.  "Not  exactly, anyway.  Ce'Nedra's not  a
sorceress,   so   she  wouldn't   be   able   to  use   one  like   yours."

"You said 'not exactly.' It does have some kind of power, then?"

"It  will give  her  certain insights,"  the  old man  answered, "if  she's
patient enough to learn how to use it."

"Exactly what are we talking about when we use the word 'insight'?"

"An ability to see and hear things she wouldn't otherwise be able to see or
hear," Belgarath specified.

"Is there anything else I should know about it before she gets here?"

"Just  tell her  that  it's a  family  heirloom," Aunt  Pol suggested.  "It
belonged to my sister, Beldaran."

"You should keep it,  Aunt Pol," Garion objected. "I can get something else
for the princess."

"No, dear. Beldaran wants her to have it."

Garion  found Aunt  Pol's  habit of  speaking of  people  long dead  in the
present tense a trifle disconcerting, so he didn't pursue the matter. There
was a light tap on the door.

"Come in, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol answered.

The  little princess  was wearing  a rather  plain green  gown open  at the
throat, and her expression was somewhat subdued.

"Come over  by the fire;" Aunt Pol told her. "The  evenings are still a bit
chilly this time of year."

"Is it  always this cold and  damp in Riva?" Ce'Nedra  asked, coming to the
fire.

"We're a long ways north of Tol Honeth," Garion pointed out.

"I'm  aware  of  that,"  she said  with  that  little  edge  in her  voice.

"I always thought it was customary to wait until after the wedding to start
bickering," Belgarath observed slyly. "Have the rules changed?"

"Just practicing,  Belgarath," Ce'Nedra replied  impishly. "Just practicing
for later on."

The old  man laughed. "You can be a charming little  girl when you put your
mind to it," he said.

Ce'Nedra bowed mockingly. Then  she turned to Garion. "It's customary for a
Tolnedran  girl to  give  her betrothed  a gift  of  a certain  value," she
informed him.  She held  up a heavy,  ornate ring set  with several glowing
stones. "This  ring belonged to Ran Horb II,  the greatest of all Tolnedran
Emperors.   Wearing   it   might   help  you   to   be   a  better   king."

Garion sighed.  It was going to be one of  those meetings. "I'll be honored
to wear  the ring," he replied as inoffensively  as possible, "and I'd like
for you  to wear this." He  handed her the velvet  box. "It belonged to the
wife of Riva Iron-grip, Aunt Pol's sister."

Ce'Nedra took  the box and  opened it. "Why, Garion,"  she exclaimed, "it's
lovely."  She  held  the  amulet in  her  hand,  turning  it  to catch  the
firelight. "The  tree looks so real that you  can almost smell the leaves."

"Thank you," Belgarath replied modestly.

"You made it?" The princess sounded startled.

The old  man nodded. "When Polgara and Beldaran  were children, we lived in
the  Vale. There  weren't very many  silversmiths there,  so I had  to make
their  amulets myself.  Aldur helped  me with  some of the  finer details."

"This  is a  priceless gift,  Garion." The  tiny girl actually  glowed, and
Garion  began to  have some  hope for  the future.  "Help me with  it," she
commanded, handing him the  two ends of the chain and turning with one hand
holding aside the mass of her deep red hair.

"Do you accept the gift, Ce'Nedra?" Aunt Pol asked her, giving the question
a peculiar emphasis.

"Of course I do," the princess replied.

"Without reservation and of your own free will?" Aunt Pol pressed, her eyes
intent.

"I accept  the gift,  Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra  replied. "Fasten it  for me,
Garion. Be sure it's secure. I wouldn't want it to come undone."

"I don't  think you'll need to  worry too much about  that," Belgarath told
her.

Garion's  fingers  trembled  slightly as  he  fastened  the curious  clasp.

His fingertips  tingled peculiarly as  the two ends locked  together with a
faintly audible click.

"Hold the  amulet in your hand, Garion,"  Aunt Pol instructed him. Ce'Nedra
lifted her chin and  Garion took the medallion in his right hand. Then Aunt
Pol and Belgarath closed their hands over his. Something peculiar seemed to
pass  through  their hands  and  into  the talisman  at Ce'Nedra's  throat.

"Now you  are sealed to us, Ce'Nedra," Aunt  Pol told the princess quietly,
"with a tie that can never be broken."

Ce'Nedra looked at her  with a puzzled expression, and then her eyes slowly
widened and a dreadful suspicion began to grow in them.

"Take it off," she told Garion sharply.

"He can't  do that," Belgarath informed her,  sitting back down and picking
up his tankard again.

Ce'Nedra was tugging at the chain, pulling with both hands.

"You'll just  scratch your neck, dear," Aunt  Pol warned gently. "The chain
won't break; it can't  be cut; and it won't come off over your head. You'll
never have to worry about losing it."

"You did this," the princess stormed at Garion.

"Did what?"

"Put this slave chain on me. It wasn't enough that I had to bow to you; now
you've put me in chains as well."

"I didn't know," he protested.

"Liar!" she  screamed at  him. Then she  turned and fled  the room, sobbing
bitterly.





Chapter Fifteen

GARION  WAS IN a  sour mood. The  prospect of  another day of  ceremony and
tedious  conferences was  totally  unbearable, and  he had  risen  early to
escape from the royal bedchamber before the insufferably polite appointment
secretary with his endless  lists could arrive to nail down the entire day.
Garion privately  detested the inoffensive fellow,  even though he knew the
man  was  only  doing his  job.  A  king's time  had  to  be organized  and
scheduled,  and it  was the  appointment secretary's  task to take  care of
that.  And so,  each morning  after breakfast,  there came  that respectful
tapping at  the door, and  the appointment secretary would  enter, bow, and
then proceed to arrange  the young king's day, minute by minute. Garion was
morbidly  convinced  that  somewhere,  probably  hidden  away  and  closely
guarded, was  the ultimate master list  that laid out the  schedule for the
rest of his life- including his royal funeral.

But this  day dawned  too gloriously for  thoughts of stuffy  formality and
heavy conference. The sun  had come boiling up out of the Sea of the Winds,
touching the snowfields atop the craggy peaks with a blushing pink, and the
morning shadows  in the deep valleys above the city  were a misty blue. The
smell  of spring  pushed  urgently in  from the  little garden  outside his
window,  and Garion  knew he  must escape, if  only for  an hour or  so. He
dressed  quickly in  tunic, hose,  and soft  Rivan boots,  rather carefully
selecting  clothes as unroyal  as his  wardrobe offered. Pausing  only long
enough to  belt on his sword, he crept out of  the royal apartment. He even
considered  riot taking  along  his guards,  but prudently  decided against
that.

They were at  a standstill in the search for the man  who had tried to kill
him in that dim  hallway, but both Lelldorin and Garion had discovered that
the outer  garments of any number  of Rivans needed repair.  The gray cloak
was  not a  ceremonial  garment, but  rather  was something  thrown on  for
warmth. It  was a sturdy, utilitarian covering, and  quite a number of such
robes  had been  allowed to  fall into  a condition of  shocking disrepair.
Moreover, now  that spring was here, men would  soon stop wearing them, and
the only  clue to the attacker's identity would be  locked away in a closet
somewhere.

Garion  brooded  about  that  as he  wandered  moodily  through the  silent
corndors of  the Citadel with  two mailed guards following  at a respectful
distance. The attempt, he  reasoned, had not come from a Grolim. Aunt Pol's
peculiar ability  to recognize the mind of a  Grolim would have alerted her
instantly. In all probability  the attacker had not been a foreigner of any
kind. There were too few foreigners on the island to make that very likely.
It had to be  a Rivan, but why would a Rivan want  to kill the king who had
just returned after thirteen hundred years?

He sighed  with perplexity over the  problem and let his  mind drift off to
other matters.  He wished  that he were  only Garion again;  he wished that
more than  anything. He wished that it might be  possible for him to awaken
in some  out-of the-way inn somewhere and start out  in the silver light of
daybreak to ride alone  to the top of the next hill to see what lay beyond.
He sighed  again. He was a  public person now, and  such freedom was denied
him. He  was coldly  certain that he  was never going  to have  a moment to
himself again.

As  he passed  an open doorway,  he suddenly  heard a familiar  voice. "Sin
creeps  into our  minds the  moment we  let our  thoughts stray,"  Relg was
saying. Garion stopped, motioning his guards to silence.

"Must  everything be a  sin?" Taiba  asked. Inevitably they  were together.
They had been together  almost continually from the moment Relg had rescued
Taiba from her living  entombment in the cave beneath Rak Cthol. Garion was
almost certain  that neither of  them was actually conscious  of that fact.
Moreover, he had seen evidence of discomfort, not only on Taiba's face, but
on Relg's  as well, whenever they were  apart. Something beyond the control
of either of them drew them together.

"The world  is filled with sin,"  Relg declared. "We must  guard against it
constantly. We  must stand jealous guard over  our purity against all forms
of temptation."

"That   would   be   very   tiresome."  Taiba   sounded   faintly   amused.

"I thought  you wanted  instruction," Relg accused  her. "If you  just came
here to mock me, I'll leave right now."

"Oh, sit down, Relg,"  she told him. "We'll never get anywhere with this if
you take offense at everything I say."

"Have you  no idea at all about the meaning of  religion?" he asked after a
moment. He actually sounded curious about it.

"In the  slave pens,  the word religion  meant death. It  meant having your
heart cut out."

"That was  a Grolim  perversion. Didn't you  have a religion  of your own?"

"The slaves  came from all over  the world, and they  prayed to many Gods -
usually for death."

"What about your own people? Who is your God?"

"I was told that  his name is Mara. We don't pray to him though - not since
he abandoned us."

"It's not  man's place to accuse  the Gods," Relg told  her sternly. "Man's
duty is  to glorify his  God and pray to  him - even if  the prayers aren't
answered."

"And what about the God's duty to man?" she asked pointedly. "Can a God not
be negligent as well  as a man? Wouldn't you consider a God negligent if he
allowed his  children to be enslaved  and butchered - or  if he allowed his
daughters to  be given as a reward to other  slaves when they pleased their
masters - as I was?"

Relg struggled with that painful question.

"I think  you've led a very sheltered life, Relg,"  she told the zealot. "I
think you  have a  very limited idea of  human suffering - of  the kinds of
things  men can  do to  other men -  and women  - apparently with  the full
permission of the Gods."

"You should have killed yourself," he said stubbornly.

"Whatever for?"

"To avoid corruption, naturally."

"You are  an innocent,  aren't you? I  didn't kill myself  because I wasn't
ready to die. Even in the slave pens, life can be sweet, Relg, and death is
bitter.  What you  call corruption  is only  a small  thing - and  not even
always unpleasant."

"Sinful womanl" he gasped.

"You worry too much  about that, Relg," she advised him. "Cruelty is a sin;
lack of  compassion is a sin.  But that other little  thing? I hardly think
so. I begin to  wonder about you. Could it be that this  UL of yours is not
quite so stern and  unforgiving as you seem to believe? Does he really want
all these prayers and  rituals and grovelings? Or are they your way to hide
from your God? So  you think that praying in a loud voice and pounding your
head  on   the  ground  will  keep  him   from  seeing  into  your  heart?"

Relg was making strangled noises.

"If our  Gods really loved us, they'd want our  lives filled with joy," she
continued  relentlessly.  "But you  hate  joy  for some  reason -  probably
because you're afraid  of it. Joy is not sin, Relg; joy  is a kind of love,
and I think the Gods approve of it - even if you don't."

"You're hopelessly depraved."

"Perhaps so," she admitted casually, "but at least I look life right in the
face.  I'm  not  afraid   of  it,  and  I  don't  try  to  hide  from  it."

"Why are  you doing  this?" he demanded  of her in an  almost tragic voice.
"Why must you forever follow me and mock me with your eyes?"

"I don't  really know,"  she replied, sounding almost  puzzled. "You're not
really that  attractive. Since we left  Rak Cthol, I've seen  dozens of men
who interested me much more. At first it was because I knew that I made you
nervous  and because  you were  afraid of  me. I  rather enjoyed  that, but
lately there's more to  it than that. It doesn't make any sense, of course.
You're what  you are, and I'm  what I am, but for some  reason I want to be
with you."  She paused. "Tell  me, Relg - and  don't try to lie  about it -
would  you   really  want  me  to  go  away   and  never  see  you  again?"

There was  a long  and painful silence.  "May UL forgive  me!" Relg groaned
finally.

"I'm sure he will, Relg," she assured him gently.

Garion  moved  quietly  on  down the  corridor  away  from  the open  door.
Something he  had not  understood before had  begun to become  quite clear.
"You're doing this, aren't you?" he asked silently.

"Naturally, " the dry voice in his mind replied.

"But why those two?"

"Because it's  necessary, Belgarion. I  don't do things out  of whim. We're
all compelled by necessity - even 1. Actually, what's going on between Relg
and Taiba doesn't remotely concern you. "

Garion was a little stung by that.

"I thought well-"

"You assumed that you were my only care - that you were the absolute center
of  the universe?  You're  not, of  course. There  are other  things almost
equally  important, and  Relg and  Taiba are  centrally involved in  one of
those things. Your participation in that particular matter is peripheral at
the most."

"They're  going to  be desperately  unhappy if  you force them  together, "
Garion accused.

"That doesn't  matter in the slightest.  Their being together is necessary.
Yau're wrong though. It  will take them a while to get used to it, but once
they do,  they're both going to be very  happy. Obedience to necessity does
have its rewards, after all."

Garion struggled with that  idea for a while, then finally gave up. His own
problems intruded  once more on his thoughts.  Inevitably, as he always did
when he  was troubled, he went  looking for Aunt Pol.  He found her sitting
before the  cozy fire in her  apartment, sipping a cup  of fragrant tea and
watching through the window as the rosy morning sunlight set the snowfields
above the city ablaze.

"You're up early," she observed as he entered.

"I wanted  to talk to you,"  he told her, "and the only  way I ever get the
chance  to do  what  I want  is to  leave my  room before  the man  with my
schedule for the day  shows up." He flung himself into a chair. "They never
give me a minute to myself."

"You're an important person now, dear."

"That wasn't my idea." He stared moodily out the window. "Grandfather's all
right now, isn't he?" he asked suddenly.

"What gave you that idea?"

"Well - the other  day, when we gave Ce'Nedra the amulet - didn't he - sort
of -?"

"Most of that came from you, dear," she replied.

"I felt something else."

"That could  have been  just me. It was  a pretty subtle thing,  and even I
couldn't be sure if he had any part in it."

"There has to be some way we can find out."

"There's only one way, Garion, and that's for him to do something."

"All right,  let's go off with  him someplace and have  him try - something
sort of small, maybe."

"And how would we explain that to him?"

"You mean he doesn't know?" Garion sat up quickly.

"He might, but I rather doubt it."

"You didn't tell him?"

"Of course  not. If he has  any doubts whatsoever about  his ability, he'll
fail, and if he fails once, that will be the end of it."

"I don't understand."

"A very  important part  of it is knowing  that it's going to  work. If you
aren't absolutely sure, then it won't. That's why we can't tell him."

Garion thought about it.  "I suppose that makes sense, but isn't it sort of
dangerous? I  mean, what if something really urgent  comes up, and he tries
to do something  about it, and we all of a sudden  find out that he can't?"

"You and I would have to deal with it then, dear."

"You seem awfully calm about it."

"Getting excited doesn't really help very much, Garion."

The door burst open,  and Queen Layla, her hair awry and her crown slipping
precariously  over one  ear, stormed  in. "I  won't have it,  Polgara," she
declared angrily.  "I absolutely won't have it. You've  got to talk to him.
Oh,  excuse  me, your  Majesty,"  the  plump little  queen added,  noticing
Garion. "I didn't see you." She curtsied gracefully.

"Your Highness," Garion replied, getting up hurriedly and bowing in return.

"With  whom  did  you   wish  me  to  speak,  Layla?"  Aunt  Pol  asked.  "

Anheg.  He insists that  my poor husband  sit up  and drink with  him every
night. Fulrach's so sick  this morning that he can barely lift his head off
the pillow.  That great bully of a Cherek  is ruining my husband's health."

"Anheg likes your husband,  Layla. It's his way of showing his friendship."

"Can't they be friends without drinking so much?"

"I'll talk to him, dear," Aunt Pol promised.

Mollified  somewhat,  Queen  Layla  departed, curtsying  again  to  Garion.

Garion was  about to  return to the  subject of Belgarath's  infirmity when
Aunt Pol's maid came in to announce Lady Merel.

Barak's wife entered the room with a somber expression. "Your Majesty," she
greeted Garion perfunctorily.

Garion rose again to  bow and politely respond. He was getting rather tired
of it.

"I need to talk with you, Polgara," Merel declared.

"Of course," Aunt Pol replied. "Would you excuse us, Garion?"

"I'll wait  in the next room," he offered. He crossed  to the door, but did
not  close it  all  the way.  Once again  his  curiosity overcame  his good
manners.

"They all keep throwing  it in my face," Merel blurted almost before he was
out of the room.

"What's that?"

"Well-" Merel  hesitated, then spoke quite firmly. "My  lord and I were not
always on the best of terms," she admitted.

"That's widely known, Merel," Aunt Pol told her diplomatically.

"That's  the  whole problem,"  Merel  complained. "They  all keep  laughing
behind their  hands and waiting  for me to go  back to being the  way I was
before." A  note of  steel crept into  her voice. "Well, it's  not going to
happen,"   she  declared,   "so  they   can  laugh   all  they   want  to."

"I'm glad to hear that, Merel," Aunt Pol replied.

"Oh, Polgara,"  Merel said with a helpless little  laugh, "he looks so much
like a  great shaggy bear, but  he's so gentle inside.  Why couldn't I have
seen that before? All those years wasted."

"You  had to  grow up,  Merel," Aunt  Pol told  her. "It takes  some people
longer, that's all."

After Lady  Merel had left, Garion  came back in and  looked quizzically at
Aunt Pol. "Has  it always been like that?" he asked her.  "What I mean is -
do people always come to you when they've got problems?"

"It happens now and then," she replied. "People seem to think that I'm very
wise. Usually  they already know what they have to do,  so I listen to them
and agree with them  and give them a bit of harmless support. It makes them
happy. I set aside  a certain amount of time each morning for these visits.
They know that I'm here if they feel the need for someone to talk to. Would
you care for some tea?"

He shook  his head.  "Isn't it an  awful burden - all  these other people's
problems, I mean?"

"It's  not really that  heavy, Garion,"  she answered. "Their  problems are
usually rather small and domestic. It's rather pleasant to deal with things
that aren't quite so  earthshaking. Besides, I don't mind visitors whatever
their reason for coming."

The  next visitor,  however,  was Queen  Islena, and  her problem  was more
serious. Garion  withdrew again when  the maid announced that  the Queen of
Cherek wished to speak privately with the Lady Polgara; but, as before, his
curiosity compelled  him to  listen at the  door of the  adjoining chamber.

"I've  tried everything  I can  think of,  Polgara," Islena  declared, "but
Grodeg won't let me go."

"The High Priest of Belar?"

"He  knows everything,  naturally," Islena  confirmed. "All  his underlings
reported my every indiscretion  to him. He threatens to tell Anheg if I try
to sever my connection with the Bear-cult. How could I have been so stupid?
He's got his hand around my throat."

"Just  how indiscreet  have  you been,  Islena?" Aunt  Pol asked  the queen
pointedly.

"I  went to some  of their rituals,"  Islena confessed.  "I put a  few cult
members  in positions  in the  palace. I  passed some information  along to
Grodeg."

"Which rituals, Islena?"

"Not those,  Polgara," Islena replied in a  shocked voice. "I'd never stoop
to that."

"So all  you really did was  attend a few harmless  gatherings where people
dress up  in bearskins and let  a few cultists into  the palace where there
were  probably a  dozen  or more  already anyway  -  and pass  on a  bit of
harmless palace gossip? - It was harmless, wasn't it?"

"I didn't pass on any state secrets, Polgara, if that's what you mean," the
queen said stiffly.

"Then Grodeg doesn't really have any hold over you, Islena."

"What should I do, Polgara?" the queen asked in an anguished voice.

"Go to Anheg. Tell him everything."

"I can't."

"You must. Otherwise Grodeg  will force you into something worse. Actually,
the situation  could be  turned to Anheg's  advantage. Tell me  exactly how
much you know about what the cult is doing?"

"They've  begun  creating  chapters among  the  peasants,  for one  thing."

"They've never  done that before," Aunt Pol  mused. "The cult's always been
restricted to the nobility and the priesthood."

"I  can't be  sure," Islena told  her, "but  I think they're  preparing for
something major - some kind of confrontation."

"I'll mention  it to my father,"  Aunt Pol replied. "I  think he'll want to
take steps. As long as the cult was the plaything of the priesthood and the
minor  nobility,  it wasn't  really  all  that important,  but rousing  the
peasantry is quite another thing."

"I've heard a few other things as well," Islena continued. "I think they're
trying to  penetrate Rhodar's intelligence  service. If they can  get a few
people in  the right places in  Boktor, they'll have access  to most of the
state secrets in the West."

"I see." Aunt Pol's voice was as cold as ice.

"I heard  Grodeg talking once," Islena said in a  tone of distaste. "It was
before he  found out that I didn't want anything more  to do with him. He'd
been reading the auguries  and the signs in the heavens, and he was talking
about the  return of the Rivan  King. The cult takes  the term 'Overlord of
the West'  quite seriously. I honestly believe  that their ultimate goal is
to elevate  Belgarion to  the status of  Emperor of all the  West - Aloria,
Sendaria, Arendia, Tolnedra - even Nyissa."

"That's not  how the term was meant to  be interpreted," Aunt Pol objected.

"I know," Islena replied,  "but Grodeg wants to twist it until it comes out
that way.  He's a total fanatic, and he wants to  convert all the people of
the West to Helar - by the sword, if necessary."

"That idiot!"  Aunt Pol raged. "He'd start a general war  in the West if he
tried that - and even set the Gods to wrangling. What is there about Alorns
that makes  them continually want to expand  to the south? Those boundaries
were established  by the Gods themselves. I think  it's time for someone to
put his  foot down on Grodeg's  neck firmly. Go to  Anheg immediately. Tell
him everything and then  tell him that I want to see him. I imagine that my
father's  going  to  want   to  discuss  the  matter  with  him  as  well."

"Anheg's  going   to  be  furious  with   me,  Polgara,"  Islena  faltered.

"I  don't think so,"  Aunt Pol assured  her. "As  soon as he  realizes that
you've exposed  Grodeg's plan,  he'll probably be rather  grateful. Let him
think  that you  went  along with  Grodeg simply  to get  more information.
That's a  perfectly respectable motive - and it's the  sort of thing a good
wife would do."

"I  hadn't thought  of that,"  Islena said,  already sounding more  sure of
herself. "It would have been a brave thing to do, wouldn't it?"

"Absolutely heroic, Islena," Aunt Pol replied. "Now go to Anheg."

"I will, Polgara." There was the sound of quick, determined steps, and then
a door closed.

"Garion, come back in here." Aunt Pol's voice was firm. He opened the door.

"You were listening?" It wasn't really a question.

"Well-"

"We're going  to have  to have a  talk about that,"  she told  him. "But it
doesn't really matter this time. Go find your grandfather and tell him that
I want  to see him immediately. I don't care what  he's doing. Bring him to
me now."

"But how do we  know he can do anything?" Garion demanded. "I mean, if he's
lost his power-"

"There are many kinds of power, Garion. Sorcery is only one of them. Now go
fetch him at once."

"Yes,  Aunt   Pol,"  Garion  replied,  already   moving  toward  the  door.





Chapter Sixteen

THE  HIGH PRIEST  of Belar  was an  imposing-looking man nearly  seven feet
tall. He had a  long gray beard and burning eyes sunk deep in their sockets
beneath bristling  black eyebrows. He arrived  from Val Alorn the following
week  after the  seemingly  endless negotiations  had finally  produced the
official betrothal document. Accompanying him as a kind of retinue were two
dozen hard-faced warriors dressed in bearskins.

"Bear-cultists," Barak  observed sourly to Garion and  Silk as the three of
them stood  atop the wall of the Citadel, watching  the High Priest and his
men  mounting the  steps  from the  harbor in  the bright  spring sunshine.

"I didn't  say anything about bringing  soldiers with him," Garion objected
indignantly.

"I imagine  he took it upon himself," Silk  replied. "Grodeg's very good at
taking things upon himself."

"I wonder  how he'd  like it if  I threw him  into a  dungeon," Garion said
hotly. "Do I have a dungeon?"

"We could improvise one,  I suppose." Barak grinned at him. "Some nice damp
cellar someplace. You might  have to import some rats, though. The island's
reputed to be free of them."

"You're making  fun of  me," Garion accused his  friend, flushing slightly.

"Now you  know I wouldn't do  that, Garion," Barak replied,  pulling at his
beard.

"I'd talk  with Belgarath  before I had  Grodeg clapped in  irons, though,"
Silk suggested. "The political implications might go a bit further than you
intend. Whatever  you do, don't let Grodeg talk  you into letting him leave
any of  his men behind. He's  been trying to get a  foothold on the Isle of
the Winds for twenty years now. Not even Brand has had the nerve to let him
go that far."

"Brand?"

"Isn't it  obvious? I wouldn't want to say that  Brand's a cult member, but
his sympathies certainly lie in that direction."

Garion was  shocked at that, and a little sick. "What  do you think I ought
to do?" he asked.

"Don't try  to play  politics with these people,"  Barak replied. "Grodeg's
here to  conduct the official betrothal ceremony. Just  let it go at that."

"He'll try  to talk to me,  though," Garion fretted. "He's  going to try to
make me  lead an invasion of  the southern kingdoms so  that he can convert
the  Arends  and  Tolnedrans   and  Nyissans  to  the  worship  of  Belar."

"Where did you hear that?" Silk asked curiously.

"I'd rather not say," Garion evaded.

"Does Belgarath know?"

Garion nodded. "Aunt Pol told him."

Silk  chewed  thoughtfully  on  a fingernail.  "Just  be  stupid," he  said
finally.

"What?"

"Pretend to  be a simple country  bumpkin with no idea  of what's going on.
Grodeg's going  to do  everything he can to  get you alone so  he can wring
concessions out of you.  Just keep smiling and nodding foolishly, and every
time he makes a  proposal, send for Belgarath. Let him think that you can't
make a single decision on your own."

"Won't that make me seem - well -?"

"Do you really care what he thinks?"

"Well, not really, I guess, but "

"It will  drive him  crazy," Barak pointed  out with a  wicked grin. "He'll
think that  you're a  complete idiot -  a ripe plum ready  for picking. But
he'll realize  that if he wants  you, he'll have to  fight Belgarath to get
you. He'll be tearing out his beard in frustration before he leaves."

He turned and looked admiringly at Silk. "That's really a terrible thing to
do to a man like Grodeg, you know."

Silk smirked. "Isn't it though?"

The  three of  them stood  grinning at  each other  and finally  burst into
laughter.

The official betrothal ceremony  was conducted the following day. There had
been a great deal  of haggling about who should enter the Hall of the Rivan
King first, but that difficulty had been overcome by Belgarath's suggestion
that  Garion  and  Ce'Nedra  could  enter  arm  in  arm. "This  is  all  in
preparation for  a wedding,  after all," he  had pointed out.  "We might as
well start off with a semblance at least of friendship."

Garion  was very  nervous  as the  hour approached.  His princess  had been
smoldering since  the incident with  the amulet, and he  was almost certain
that  there was  going to  be trouble.  But to  his surprise,  Ce'Nedra was
radiant as  the two  of them waited  alone together in  a small antechamber
while the  official guests  gathered in the  Hall. Garion fidgeted  a great
deal and walked up and down, nervously adjusting his clothing, but Ce'Nedra
sat rather  demurely, patiently  awaiting the trumpet fanfare  which was to
announce their entrance.

"Garion," she said after a while.

"Yes?"

"Do you  remember that time we bathed together in  the Wood of the Dryads?"

"We did not bathe  together," Garion replied quickly, blushing to the roots
of his hair.

"Well,  very nearly." She  brushed his  distinction aside. "Do  you realize
that Lady Polgara kept  throwing us together like that all the time we were
travelling?  She knew  that  all this  was  going to  happen, didn't  she?"

"Yes," Garion admitted.

"So  she kept  shoving  us at  each  other, hoping  something might  happen
between us."

Garion thought about that. "You're probably right," he concluded.

"She likes  to arrange  people's lives for them."Ce'Nedra  sighed. "Look at
all  the   opportunities  we   missed,"  she  said   somewhat  regretfully.

"Ce'Nedral" Garion gasped, shocked at her suggestion.

She giggled  a bit wickedly. Then she sighed again.  "Now it's all going to
be dreadfully official - and probably not nearly as much fun."

Garion's face was flaming by now.

"Anyway," she  continued, "that time  we bathed together -  do you remember
that I asked you if you'd like to kiss me?"

Garion nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"I  never  got that  kiss,  you know,"  she  said archly,  standing up  and
crossing the small room to him, "and I think I'd like it now."

She took  hold of the front  of his doublet firmly  with both little hands.
"You owe me a kiss, Belgarion of Riva, and a Tolnedran always collects what
people  owe  her." The  look  she directed  up  through her  lashes at  him
smoldered dangerously.

Just   outside,   the   trumpets    blared   out   an   extended   fanfare.

"We're supposed to go in now," Garion sputtered a bit desperately.

"Let  them  wait," she  murmured,  her  arms sliding  up  around his  neck.

Garion  tried for  a quick,  perfunctory kiss,  but his princess  had other
ideas. Her little arms  were surprisingly strong, and her fingers locked in
his  hair. The  kiss was  lingering, and  Garion's knees began  to tremble.

"There,"    Ce'Nedra   breathed    when    she   finally    released   him.

"We'd better go in," Garion suggested as the trumpets blared again.

"In a moment. Did  you muss me?" She turned around so that he could inspect
her.

"No,"   he   replied.   "Everything   still   seems  to   be   in   order."

She shook  her head rather disapprovingly. "Try to  do a little better next
time,"  she told  him. "Otherwise I  might start  to think that  you're not
taking me seriously."

"I'm never going to understand you, Ce'Nedra."

"I  know," she  said with a  mysterious little  smile. Then she  patted his
cheek gently.  "And I'm going to  do everything I can  to keep it that way.
Shall we  go in?  We really shouldn't  keep our guests  waiting, you know."

"That's what I said in the first place."

"We were busy then,"  she declared with a certain grand indifference. "Just
a moment." She carefully smoothed his hair. "There. That's better. Now give
me your arm."

Garion  extended his arm,  and his princess  laid her  hand on it.  Then he
opened the  door to  the third chorus  from the trumpets.  They entered the
Hall, and an excited buzz ran through the crowd assembled there. Taking his
cue  from Ce'Nedra,  Garion moved  at a  stately pace,  his face  sober and
regal-looking.

"Not  quite  so grim,"  she  whispered.  "Smile just  a  little  - and  nod
occasionally. It's the thing to do."

"If you say so,"  he replied. "I really don't know too much about this sort
of thing."

"You'll be just fine," she assured him.

Smiling and nodding to  the spectators, the royal couple passed through the
Hall to  the chair  that had been  placed near the front  for the princess.
Garion  held the  chair for  her, then  bowed and  mounted the dais  to his
throne. As  always happened, the Orb  of Aldur began to  glow as soon as he
sat down.  This time, however, it  seemed to have a  faint pink cast to it.

The official  betrothal ceremony began with  a rolling invocation delivered
in  a  thunderous voice  by  the High  Priest  of Belar.  Grodeg took  full
advantage of the dramatics of the situation.

"Tiresome old  windbag, isn't  he?" Belgarath murmured  from his accustomed
place at the right of the throne.

"What  were  you and  Ce'Nedra  doing  in there?"  Aunt  Pol asked  Garion.

"Nothing," Garion replied, blushing furiously.

"Really? And it took you all that time? How extraordinary."

Grodeg had  begun reading the first clauses  of the betrothal agreement. To
Garion they  sounded like pure gibberish.  At various points Grodeg stopped
his reading to look sternly at Garion.

"Does  His Majesty,  Belgarion of  Riva, agree  to this?" he  demanded each
time.

"I do," Garion replied.

"Does Her Highness Ce'Nedra  of the Tolnedran Empire agree to this?" Grodeg
asked the princess.

Ce'Nedra responded in a clear voice, "I do."

"How  are you  two getting  along?" Belgarath  asked, ignoring  the droning
voice of the clergyman.

"Who knows?"  Garion answered helplessly. "I can't  tell from one minute to
the next what she's going to do."

"That's the way it's supposed to be," Aunt Pol told him.

"I don't suppose you'd consider explaining that."

"No, dear," she replied  with a smile as mysterious as Ce'Nedra's had been.

"I didn't really think so," he grumbled.

Garion thought  about Ce'Nedra's rather open  invitation to muss her during
the interminable reading of  the document which was firmly nailing down the
remainder of his life,  and the more he thought about it, the more he found
the notion of a  bit of polite mussing attractive. He rather hoped that the
princess would  linger after the ceremony and  that they might go someplace
private  to discuss  it. Following  Grodeg's pompous  benediction, however,
Ce'Nedra was  immediately surrounded by all the  younger girls in the court
and  swept away  for some private  celebration of  their own. From  all the
giggling and wicked little glances cast in his direction, he concluded that
the conversation  at their little get-together was  going to be very frank,
probably  naughty,  and  that  the  less  he  knew  about  it  the  better.

As Silk  and Barak  had predicted, the  High Priest of  Belar tried several
times to  speak to  Garion privately. Each  time, however, Garion  put on a
great show of ingenuousness and sent immediately for Belgarath. Grodeg left
the island with his entire retinue the following day. To add a final insult
to the  whole matter, Garion  insisted that he and  Belgarath accompany the
fuming ecclesiast  to his ship to  see him off - and  to be certain that no
Bear-cultist might inadvertently be left behind.

"Whose idea  was all of this?" Belgarath inquired  as he and Garion climbed
the steps back to the Citadel.

"Silk and I worked it out," Garion replied smugly.

"I might have known."

"I thought things went quite well," Garion congratulated himself.

"You've made yourself a dangerous enemy, you know."

"We can handle him."

"You're getting  to be  very free with  that 'we,' Garion,"  Belgarath said
disapprovingly.

"We're all in this together, aren't we, Grandfather?"

Belgarath looked  at him helplessly for  a moment and then  began to laugh.

In  the days that  followed Grodeg's  departure, however, there  was little
occasion for  laughter. Once  the official ceremonies were  over, the Alorn
Kings,  King  Fulrach,  and  various  advisers  and generals  got  down  to
business. Their subject was war.

"The most recent reports  I have from Cthol Murgos indicate that Taur Urgas
is preparing  to move the southern Murgos up from Rak  Hagga as soon as the
weather  breaks   on  the   eastern  coast,"  King   Rhodar  advised  them.

"And the Nadraks?" King Anheg asked.

"They  appear to  be mobilizing,  but there's  always a question  about the
Nadraks. They  play their  own game, so it  takes a lot of  Grolims to whip
them into line. The Thulls just obey orders."

"The Thulls  don't really concern anyone," Brand  observed. "The key to the
whole situation  is how  many Malloreans are  going to be able  to take the
field against us."

"There's  a staging  area for  them being  set up  at Thull  Zelik," Rhodar
reported, "but they're also  waiting for the weather to break in the Sea of
the East."

King Anheg  frowned thoughtfully.  "Malloreans are bad  sailors," he mused.
"They won't move until  summer, and they'll hug the north coast all the way
to Thull Zelik. We  need to get a fleet into the Sea of the East as soon as
possible. If  we can sink enough  of their ships and  drown enough of their
soldiers, we might be able to keep them out of the war entirely. I think we
should strike in force into Gar og Nadrak. Once we get into the forests, my
men can  build ships. We'll sail down the River Cordu  and out into the Sea
of the East."

"Thy  plan hath  merit, your  Majesty," Mandorallen approved,  studying the
large  map hanging  on  the wall.  "The Nadraks  are  fewest in  number and
farthest   removed   from   the   hordes   of   southern   Cthol   Murgos."

King Rhodar  shook his head stubbornly. "I know you want  to get to the sea
as quickly as possible, Anheg," he objected, "but you're committing me to a
campaign in  the Nadrak forest. I  need open country to  maneuver in. If we
strike at  the Thulls, we can  cut directly across to  the upper reaches of
the  River  Mardu,  and  you  can  sail  on  down  to the  sea  that  way."

"There  aren't  that many  trees  in  Mishrak ac  Thull," Anheg  protested.

"Why build  ships out of green lumber if you  don't have to?" Rhodar asked.
"Why not sail up the Aldur and then portage across?"

"You want  my men  to portage ships  up the eastern  escarpment? Rhodar, be
serious."

"We have  engineers, Anheg. They can devise ways to  lift your ships to the
top of the escarpment."

Garion did not want  to intrude his inexperience on the conference, but the
question came  out before he had  time to think about  it. "Have we decided
where the final battle's going to be?" he asked.

"Which final battle was that, Garion?" Rhodar asked politely.

"When we meet them head-on - like Vo Mimbre."

"There won't  be a Vo Mimbre  in this war," Anheg told  him. "Not if we can
help it."

"Vo Mimbre was a mistake, Garion," Belgarath said quietly. "We all knew it,
but there wasn't anything we could do about it."

"We won, didn't we?"

"That was  pure luck,  and you can't plan  a campaign on the  hope that you
might get lucky. Nobody wanted the battle at Vo Mimbre - we didn't, and Kal
Torak didn't, but nobody  had any choice in the matter. We had to commit to
battle before the second  Angarak column arrived in the West. Kal Torak had
been holding the southern Murgos and eastern Malloreans in reserve near Rak
Hagga, and they started  to march when he turned west from the siege of the
Stronghold.  If they'd  been  able to  join  forces with  Kal Torak,  there
wouldn't have  been enough men in  all the West to meet  them, so we had to
fight.    Vo   Mimbre    was   the   least    objectionable   battlefield."

"Why didn't Kal Torak just wait until they arrived?" Garion asked.

"You can't  stop an army in  unfriendly territory, King Belgarion," Colonel
Brendig explained. "You have to keep moving, or the local populace destroys
all the food and  starts coming out at night to cut up your people. You can
lose half your army that way."

"Kal  Torak didn't want  the meeting at  Vo Mimbre  any more than  we did,"
Belgarath  went on.  "The  column from  Rak Hagga  got  caught in  a spring
blizzard in  the mountains and bogged  down for weeks. They  finally had to
turn back, and Torak was forced to fight at Vo Mimbre without any advantage
of  numbers, and  nobody  in his  right mind  goes  into battle  that way."

"Thy  force  should  be  larger  by  a  quarter  than  thine  adversary's,"
Mandorallen agreed, "else the outcome must be in doubt."

"By  a third," Barak  corrected in a  rumbling voice.  "By half if  you can
arrange it."

"Then all we're going  to do is spread out all over the eastern half of the
continent  and fight  a whole  series of  little battles?"  Garion demanded
incredulously.  "That could  take years  - decades.  It could  go on  for a
century."

"If it has to," Belgarath told him bluntly. "What did you expect, Garion? A
short little ride in  the sunshine, a nice easy fight, and then home before
winter? I'm afraid it  won't be like that. You'd better get used to wearing
armor and a sword,  because you'll probably be dressed that way for most of
the  rest  of  your   life.  This  is  likely  to  be  a  very  long  war."

Garion's illusions were crumbling rapidly.

The door to the council room opened, then, and Olban, Brand's youngest son,
entered and  spoke with his father. The weather  had turned blustery, and a
spring storm  was raking the island. Olban's  gray Rivan cloak was dripping
as he entered.

Dismayed by  the prospect  of year after  year of campaigning  in the East,
Garion distractedly stared at the puddle forming around Olban's feet as the
young man talked quietly with Brand. Then, out of habit, he lifted his eyes
slightly to look at the hem of Olban's cloak. There was a small tear on the
left  corner of  the  cloak, and  a scrap  of cloth  seemed to  be missing.

Garion stared  at the telltale  rip for a moment  without realizing exactly
what it  was he  saw. Then he went  suddenly cold. With a  slight start, he
jerked  his eyes  up  to look  at Olban's  face.  Brand's youngest  son was
perhaps Garion's  own age, a bit  shorter, but more muscular.  His hair was
pale  blond,  and  his  young  face  was serious,  reflecting  already  the
customary Rivan gravity. He seemed to be trying to avoid Garion's eyes, but
showed no other sign of nervousness. Once, however, he looked inadvertently
at the young king  and seemed to flinch slightly as guilt rose clearly into
his  eyes.   Garion  had  found  the  man  who   had  tried  to  kill  him.

The conference  continued after that, but  Garion did not hear  any more of
it. What was he  to do? Had Olban acted alone, or were others involved? Had
Brand himself been  a part of it? It was so difficult  to know what a Rivan
was thinking.  He trusted Brand,  but the big Warder's  connection with the
Bear-cult gave a certain ambiguity to his loyalties. Could Grodeg be behind
all this? Or perhaps  a Grolim? Garion remembered the Earl of Jarvik, whose
soul had  been purchased  by Asharak and  who had mounted  rebellion in Val
Alorn. Had  Olban fallen perhaps under  the spell of the  blood-red gold of
Angarak as  Jarvik had? But Riva was an island, the  one place in the world
where  no Grolim  could  ever come.  Garion discounted  the  possibility of
bribery.  In the first  place, it was  not in  the Rivan character.  In the
second, Olban had not  likely ever been in a situation to come into contact
with  a  Grolim. Rather  grimly,  Garion  decided on  a  course of  action.

Lelldorin,  of course,  had  to be  kept out  of  it. The  hot-headed young
Asturian was incapable of the kind of delicate discretion that seemed to be
called for.  Lelldorin would  reach for his  sword, and the  whole business
would disintegrate rather rapidly after that.

When the  conference broke up for the day  late that afternoon, Garion went
looking for  Olban. He did not  take a guard with him,  but he did wear his
sword.

As chance  had it,  it was in  a dim corndor  not unlike the  one where the
assassination  attempt had  taken  place that  the young  king  finally ran
Brand's youngest  son down.  Olban was coming  along the passageway  in one
direction, and Garion was going the other. Olban's face paled slightly when
he saw his king,  and he bowed deeply to hide his expression. Garion nodded
as if intending to  pass without speaking, but turned after the two of them
had gone by each other. "Olban," he said quietly.

Brand's son turned, a look of dread on his face.

"I noticed that the corner of your cloak is torn," Garion said in an almost
neutral tone.  "When you  take it to  have it mended, this  might help." He
took the scrap  of cloth out from under his doublet and  of fered it to the
pale-faced young Rivan.

Olban stared wide-eyed at him, not moving.

"And as  long as  we're at it,"  Garion continued, "you might  as well take
this, too. I think you dropped it somewhere." He reached inside his doublet
again and took out the dagger with its bent point.

Olban started to tremble  violently, then he suddenly dropped to his knees.
"Please, your Majesty," he  begged, "let me kill myself. If my father finds
out what I've done, it will break his heart."

"Why did you try to kill me, Olban?" Garion asked.

"For love  of my  father," Brand's son  confessed, tears welling  up in his
eyes. "He was ruler here in Riva until you came. Your arrival degraded him.
I couldn't  bear that. Please, your  Majesty, don't have me  dragged to the
scaffold like a common  criminal. Give me the dagger and I'll bury it in my
heart   right    here.   Spare   my   father    this   last   humiliation."

"Don't talk  nonsense," Garion told him,  "and get up. You  look silly down
there on your knees."

"Your Majesty-" Olban began to protest.

"Oh, be  still," Garion  told him irritably.  "Let me think  for a moment."
Dimly he began to see the glimmer of an idea. "All right," he said finally,
"this is  what we're going to do. You're going to  take this knife and this
wool scrap down to  the harbor and throw them into the sea, and then you're
going  to  go  on   about  your  life  as  if  this  had  never  happened."

"Your Majesty-"

"I'm not finished. Neither you nor I will ever speak of this again. I don't
want any hysterical public confessions, and I absolutely forbid you to kill
yourself. Do you understand me, Olban?"

Dumbly the young man nodded.

"I need your father's  help too much to have this come out or for him to be
distracted by  personal tragedy. This did not happen,  and that's an end of
it. Take these  and get out of my sight." He shoved  the knife and the wool
scrap into Olban's hands.  He was suddenly infuriated. The weeks of looking
nervously over his shoulder  had all been so unnecessary - so useless. "Oh,
one other  thing, Olban,"  he added as  the stricken young  Rivan turned to
leave. "Don't  throw any  more knives at me.  If you want to  fight, let me
know,  and we'll  go someplace private  and cut  each other to  ribbons, if
that's what you want."

Olban fled sobbing.

"Very well done, Belgarion, " the dry voice complimented him.

"Oh, shut up," Garion said.

He slept  very little that night.  He had a few  doubts about the wisdom of
the course he had taken with Olban; but on the whole, he was satisfied that
what  he had  done had  been right. Olban's  act had  been no more  than an
impulsive attempt to erase what he believed to be his father's degradation.
There  had  been  no  plot involved  in  it.  Olban  might resent  Garion's
magnanimous gesture, but he  would not throw any more daggers at his king's
back. What disturbed Garion's sleep the most during that restless night was
Belgarath's  bleak appraisal  of  the war  upon  which they  were about  to
embark. He slept briefly on toward dawn and awoke from a dreadful nightmare
with icy sweat standing  out on his forehead. He had just seen himself, old
and weary, leading a pitifully small army of ragged, gray-haired men into a
battle they could not possibly win.

"There's an  alternative, of cours  - if you've recovered  enough from your
bout of peevishness to  listen,"the voice in his mind advised him as he sat
bolt upright and trembling in his bed.

"What?" Garion  answered aloud. "Oh, that  - I'm sorry I  spoke that way. I
was irritated, that's all."

"In many ways you're like Belgamth - remarkably - so his irritability seems
to be hereditary."

"It's only  natural, I  suppose," Garion conceded.  "You said there  was an
alternative. An alternative to what?"

"To this  war that's giving you nightmares. Get dressed  I want to show you
something "

Garion climbed  out of his bed  and hastily jerked on  his clothing. "Where
are we going?" he asked, still speaking aloud.

"It isn't far,"

The room  to which  the other awareness  directed him was  musty and showed
little evidence of use.  The books and scrolls lining the shelves along its
walls  were dust-covered,  and  cobwebs draped  the corners.  Garion's lone
candle  cast  looming  shadows  that  seemed  to  dance  along  the  walls.

"On  the top shelf,  " the voice  told him.  "The scroll wrapped  in yellow
linen. Take it down."

Garion climbed  up on a chair and took down the  scroll. "What is this?" he
asked.

"The Mrin  Codex, Take off the cover and start  unrolling it. I'll tell you
when to stop."

It took Garion a  moment or two to get the knack of unrolling the bottom of
the  scroll  with  one  hand  and  rolling  up  the  top  with  the  other.

"There," the voice said. "That's the passage. Read it."

Garion struggled  over the words. The script was  spidery, and he still did
not read very well. "It doesn't make any sense," he complained.

"The man who wrote  it down was insane, " the voice apologized, "and he was
an imbecile  besides, but he was  all I had to work  with. Try it again but
loud "

Garion read: "Behold, it  shall come to pass that in a certain moment, that
which must  be and that which  must not be shall  meet, and in that meeting
shall be  decided all  that has gone  before and all that  will come after.
Then will the  Child of Light and the Child of Dark  face each other in the
broken  tomb, and  the  stars will  shudder and  grow dim."  Garion's voice
trailed   off.   "It  still   doesn't   make  any   sense,"  he   objected.

"It's a  bit obscure,"the voice admitted. "As I said,  the man who wrote it
was insane.  I put  the ideas there, but  he used his own  words to express
them. "

"Who is the Child of Light?" Garion asked.

"You are for the moment at least. It changes. "

"Me?"

"Of course."

"Then who's this Child of Dark I'm supposed to meet?"

"Torak."

"Torak!"

"I should have thought  that would be obvious by now. I told you once about
the two  possible destinies  coming together finally.  You and Torak  - the
Child of Light and the Child of Dark - embody those destinies."

"But Torak's asleep."

"Not any more. When you first put your hand on the Orb, the touch signalled
his awakening.  Even now  he stirs on  the edge of awareness,  and his hand
fumbles for the hilt of Cthrek-Goru, his black sword."

Garion went  very cold. "Are you  trying to say that  I'm supposed to fight
Torak? Alone?"

"It's going to happen, Belgarion. The universe itself rushes toward it. You
can gather  an army if  you want, but your  army - or Torak's  - won't mean
anything. As  the Codex says,  everything will be decided  when you finally
meet him. In the  end, you'll face each other alone. That's what I meant by
an alternative."

"What you're  trying to say is  that I'm just supposed  to go off alone and
find him and fight him?" Garion demanded incredulously.

"Approximately, yep "

"I won't do it."

"That's up to you. "

Garion struggled with it. "If I take an army, I'll just get a lot of people
killed, and it won't make any difference in the end anyway?"

"Not the least bit. In the end it will just be you, Torak, Cthrek-Goru, and
the sword of the Rivan King. "

"Don't I have any choice at all?"

"None whatsoever. "

"Do I have to go alone?" Garion asked plaintively.

"It doesn't say that."

"Could I take one or two people with me?"

"That's your decision, Belgarion. Just don't forget to take your sword "

He thought  about it  for the rest  of the day.  In the end  his choice was
obvious.  As  evening settled  over  the gray  city  of Riva,  he sent  for
Belgarath and  Silk. There were some problems  involved, he knew, but there
was  no one  else  he could  rely on.  Even if  his power  were diminished,
Belgarath's wisdom  made Garion  not even want to  consider the undertaking
without him.  And Silk, of  course, was just as  essential. Garion reasoned
that  his own  increasing  talent for  sorcery could  see them  through any
difficulties if Belgarath should  falter, and Silk could probably find ways
to avoid most of  the serious confrontations. Garion was confident that the
three of them would  be able to cope with whatever arose - until they found
Torak.   He  didn't   want  to   think  about   what  might   happen  then.

When the  two of  them arrived, the  young king was staring  out the window
with haunted eyes.

"You sent for us?" Silk asked.

"I have  to make  a journey," Garion  replied in a  scarcely audible voice.

"What's   bothering  you?"   Belgarath  said.   "You  look  a   bit  sick."

"I just found out what it is that I'm supposed to do, Grandfather."

"Who told you?"

"He did."

Belgarath pursed his lips. "A bit premature, perhaps," he suggested. "I was
going  to wait  a while  longer, but I  have to  assume he knows  what he's
doing."

"Who is this we're talking about?" Silk asked.

"Garion has  a periodic visitor,"  the old man answered.  "A rather special
visitor."

"That's a singularly unenlightening response, old friend."

"Are you sure you really want to know?"

"Yes," Silk replied, "I  think I do. I get the feeling that I'm going to be
involved in it."

"You're aware of the Prophecy?"

"Naturally."

"It  appears that the  Prophecy is a  bit more  than a statement  about the
future. It seems to  be able to take a hand in things from time to time. It
speaks to Garion on occasion."

Silk's  eyes  narrowed as  he  thought  about that.  "All  right," he  said
finally.

"You don't seem surprised."

The  rat-faced little  man  laughed. "Belgarath,  nothing about  this whole
thing surprises me any more."

Belgarath turned back to Garion. "Exactly what did he tell you?"

"He showed me the Mrin Codex. Have you ever read it?"

"From end to end and backward and forward - even from side to side a couple
of times. Which part did he show you?"

"The part  about the meeting of the Child of Light  and the Child of Dark."

"Oh," Belgarath  said. "I was afraid  it might have been  that part. Did he
explain it?"

Dumbly, Garion nodded.

"Well," the old man  said with a penetrating look, "now you know the worst.
What are you going to do about it?"

"He gave  me a couple of  alternatives," Garion said. "I  can wait until we
get an army  together, and we can go off and fight  back and forth with the
Angaraks for generations. That's one way, isn't it?"

Belgarath nodded.

"Of course that will  get millions of people killed for nothing, won't it?"

The old man nodded again.

Garion drew  in a deep breath. "Or," he continued, "I  can go off by myself
and find Torak - wherever he is - and try to kill him."

Silk whistled, his eyes widening.

"He said that I  didn't have to go alone," Garion added hopefully. "I asked
him about that."

"Thanks," Belgarath said dryly.

Silk sprawled in a  nearby chair, rubbing thoughtfully at his pointed nose.
He looked  at Belgarath. "You know  that Polgara would skin  the both of us
inch by inch if we let him go off alone, don't you?"

Belgarath grunted.

"Where did you say Torak is?"

"Cthol Mishrak - in Mallorea."

"I've never been there."

"I have - a few times. It's not a very attractive place."

"Maybe time has improved it."

"That's not very likely."

Silk shrugged. "Maybe we ought to go with him - show him the way, that sort
of thing. It's time I left Riva anyway. Some ugly rumors are starting to go
around about me."

"It  is rather  a good  time of  year for travelling,"  Belgarath admitted,
giving Garion a sly, sidelong glance.

Garion felt better already. He knew from their bantering tone that they had
already made  up their  minds. He would not  have to go in  search of Torak
alone. For  now that was enough:  there'd be time for  worrying later. "All
right," he said, "what do we do?"

"We creep out of Riva very quietly," Belgarath replied. "There's nothing to
be gained  by getting into any  long discussions with your  .Aunt Pol about
this."

"The wisdom of ages," Silk agreed fervently. "When do we start?" His ferret
eyes were very bright.

"The sooner the better." Belgarath shrugged.

"Did you have any plans for tonight?"

"Nothing I can't postpone."

"All right then. We'll wait until everyone goes to bed, and then we'll pick
up Garion's sword and get started." "Which way do we go?" Garion asked him.

"Sendaria  first," Belgarath replied,  "and then  across Drasnia to  Gar og
Nadrak. Then  north to the archipelago that leads  to Mallorea. It's a long
way to Cthol Mishrak and the tomb of the one-eyed God."

"And then?"

"Then, Garion, we settle this once and for all."





                                 PART THREE

                                  DRASNIA





                                  [Image]





Chapter Seventeen

"DEAR AUNT  POL," Garion's  note began, "I  know this is going  to make you
angry, but  there's no other way. I've seen the Mrin  Codex, and now I know
what  I  have to  do.  The-"  He broke  off,  frowning. "How  do you  spell
'Prophecy'?" he asked.

Belgarath spelled it out for him. "Don't drag it out too much, Garion," the
old man advised. "Nothing you say is going to make her happy about this, so
stick to the point."

"Don't you think I  ought to explain why we're doing this?" Garion fretted.

"She's read the Codex, Garion," Belgarath replied. "She'll know why without
your explanation."

"I  really ought  to leave  a note  for Ce'Nedra, too,"  Garion considered.

"Polgara can  tell her  what she needs  to know," Belgarath  said. "We have
things  to   do  and  we  can't   afford  to  spend  the   whole  night  on
correspondence."

"I've never written a  letter before," Garion remarked. "It's not nearly as
easy as it looks."

"Just say what you  have to say and then stop," the old man advised. "Don't
labor at it so much."

The door  opened and Silk came  back in. He was  dressed in the nondescript
clothing  he   had  worn  on   the  road,  and  he   carried  two  bundles.

"I  think these should  fit you," he  said, handing  one of the  bundles to
Belgarath and the other to Garion.

"Did you get the money?" the old man asked him.

"I borrowed some from Barak."

"That's   surprising,"   Belgarath  replied.   "He   isn't  notorious   for
generosity."

"I  didn't tell him  I was borrowing  it," the  little man returned  with a
broad wink. "I thought  it would save time if I didn't have to go into long
explanations."

One of Belgarath's eyebrows shot up.

"We are  in a  hurry, aren't we?"  Silk asked with  an innocent expression.
"And Barak can be tedious when it comes to money."

"Spare me the excuses," Belgarath told him. He turned back to Garion. "Have
you finished with that yet?"

"What do you think?" Garion asked, handing him the note.

The old  man glanced at it. "Good enough," he said.  "Now sign it and we'll
put it where somebody'll find it sometime tomorrow."

"Late  tomorrow," Silk  suggested. "I'd  like to  be well out  of Polgara's
range when she finds out that we've left."

Garion signed the note, folded it and wrote, "For Lady Polgara," across the
outside.

"We'll leave  it on the throne," Belgarath  said. "Let's change clothes and
go get the sword."

"Isn't  the sword going  to be a  bit bulky?"  Silk asked after  Garion and
Belgarath had changed.

"There's a scabbard for  it in one of the antechambers," Belgarath answered
opening the  door carefully  and peering out  into the silent  hall. "He'll
have to wear it slung across his back."

"That glow is going to be a bit ostentatious," Silk said.

"We'll cover the Orb," Belgarath replied. "Let's go."

The three  of them  slipped out into  the dimly lighted  corridor and crept
through  the midnight  stillness  toward the  throne room.  Once,  a sleepy
servant  going  toward the  kitchen  almost  surprised them,  but an  empty
chamber provided  them with a  temporary hiding place until  he had passed.
Then they moved on.

"Is it  locked?" Silk whispered when  they reached the door  to the Hall of
the Rivan King.

Garion  took hold  of the large  handle and  twisted, wincing as  the latch
clacked loudly  in the midnight stillness. He  pushed, and the door creaked
as it swung open.

"You  ought   to  have   somebody  take  care  of   that,"  Silk  muttered.

The Orb of Aldur began to glow faintly as soon as the three of them entered
the Hall.

"It seems to recognize you," Silk observed to Garion.

When Garion  took down the sword,  the Orb flared, filling  the Hall of the
Rivan  King with its  deep blue  radiance. Garion looked  around nervously,
fearful  that  someone  passing   might  see  the  light  and  come  in  to
investigate.  "Stop that,"  he  irrationally admonished  the stone.  With a
startled flicker, the glow of the Orb subsided back into a faint, pulsating
light,  and   the  triumphant  song  of  the   Orb  stilled  to  a  murmur.

Belgarath looked quizzically at his grandson, but said nothing. He led them
to an  antechamber and removed a long, plain  scabbard from a case standing
against  the wall.  The belt attached  to the  scabbard had seen  a certain
amount of use. The  old man buckled it in place for Garion, passing it over
the  young man's  right  shoulder and  down across  his  chest so  that the
scabbard,  attached to  the belt  in two  places, rode diagonally  down his
back. There was also a knitted tube in the case, almost like a narrow sock.
"Slide this over the hilt," Belgarath instructed.

Garion covered the hilt of his great sword with the tube and then took hold
of  the blade itself  and carefully inserted  the tip  into the top  of the
scabbard. It  was awkward, and  neither Silk nor Belgarath  offered to help
him. All  three of them knew why. The sword slid  home and, since it seemed
to  have no  weight, it was  not too  uncomfortable. The crosspiece  of the
hilt, however, stood out just at the top of his head and tended to poke him
if he moved too quickly.

"It  wasn't  really meant  to  be worn,"  Belgarath  told him.  "We had  to
improvise."

Once again, the three  of them passed through the dimly lighted corndors of
the sleeping palace and emerged through a side door. Silk slipped on ahead,
moving as  soundlessly as a cat  and keeping to the  shadows. Belgarath and
Garion waited.  An open window perhaps twenty  feet overhead faced out into
the courtyard.  As they stood together beneath  it, a faint light appeared,
and the  voice that  spoke down to  them was very soft.  "Errand?" it said.

"Yes," Garion replied without thinking. "Everything's all right. Go back to
bed."

"Belgarion," the  child said with  a strange kind of  satisfaction. Then he
added,  "Good-bye," in  a  somewhat more  wistful  tone, and  he was  gone.

"Let's hope he doesn't run straight to Polgara," Belgarath muttered.

"I think we can trust him, Grandfather. He knew we were leaving and he just
wanted to say good-bye."

"Would you like to explain how you know that?"

"I don't know." Garion shrugged. "I just do."

Silk whistled  from the  courtyard gate, and Belgarath  and Garion followed
him down into the quiet streets of the city.

It was still early spring, and the night was cool but not chilly. There was
a fragrance in the air, washing down over the city from the high meadows in
the mountains  behind Riva and mingling with peat  smoke and the salty tang
of  the sea.  The stars  overhead were  bright, and  the newly  risen moon,
looking swollen  as it rode low over the  horizon, cast a glittering golden
path across the breast of the Sea of the Winds. Garion felt that excitement
he always experienced when starting out at night. He had been cooped up too
long, and  each step that took him farther and  farther from the dull round
of  appointments  and ceremonies  filled  him with  an almost  intoxicating
anticipation.

"It's good to be  on the road again," Belgarath murmured, as if reading his
thoughts.

"Is it  always like this?" Garion  whispered back. "I mean,  even after all
the years that you've been doing it?"

"Always,"  Belgarath replied.  "Why do  you think  I prefer  the life  of a
vagabond?"

They  moved on  down  through the  dark streets  to the  city gate  and out
through  a small  sallyport  to the  wharves jutting  into  the moondappled
waters of the harbor.

Captain Greldik  was a  bit drunk when  they reached his  ship. The vagrant
seaman had  ridden out the winter in the safety of  the harbor at Riva. His
ship had  been hauled out on  the strand, her bottom  scraped and her seams
recaulked. Her main mast, which had creaked rather alarmingly on the voyage
from Sendaria, had been  reinforced and fitted with new sails. Then Greldik
and his  crew had spent much of their time  carousing. The effects of three
months of  steady dissipation  showed on his  face when they  woke him. His
eyes  were bleary,  and  there were  dark-stained pouches  under  them. His
bearded face looked puffy and unwell.

"Maybe tomorrow,"  he grunted when Belgarath told  him of their urgent need
to leave  the island.  "Or the next  day. The next  day would  be better, I
think."

Belgarath spoke more firmly.

"My sailors couldn't possibly  man the oars," Greldik objected. "They'll be
throwing up all over  the deck, and it takes a week to clean up a mess like
that."

Belgarath delivered  a blistering  ultimatum, and Greldik  sullenly climbed
out of  his rumpled  bunk. He lurched  toward the crew's  quarters, pausing
only long  enough to be noisily  sick over the rail,  and then he descended
into  the forward  hold, where  with kicks  and curses  he roused  his men.

The moon  was high and dawn  only a few hours  off when Greldik's ship slid
quietly out  of the harbor and  met the long, rolling  swells of the Sea of
the   Winds.  When   the  sun   came  up   they  were   far  out   at  sea.

The weather held fair, even though the winds were not favorable, and in two
days' time  Greldik dropped  Garion, Silk and  Belgarath off on  a deserted
beach just north of the mouth of the Seline River on the northwest coast of
Sendaria.

"I don't  know that  I'd be in  all that big  a hurry to go  back to Riva,"
Belgarath told Greldik as he stepped out of the small boat onto the sand of
the beach.  He handed the bearded  Cherek a small pouch  of jingling coins.
"I'm  sure  you and  your  crew can  find  a bit  of diversion  somewhere."

"It's always nice in Camaar this time of year," Greldik mused, bouncing the
pouch  thoughtfully in  his hand,  "and I  know a  young widow  there who's
always been very friendly."

"You ought to pay  her a visit," Belgarath suggested. "You've been away for
quite  some time,  and she's sure  to have  been terribly lonely  for you."

"I think  maybe I  will," Greldik said,  his eyes suddenly  bright. "Have a
good trip."  He motioned to his  men, and they began  rowing the small boat
back  toward  the  lean   ship  standing  a  few  hundred  yards  offshore.

"What was that all about?" Garion asked.

"I'd like  to get a bit of distance between us  and Polgara before she gets
her hands on Greldik,"  the old man replied. "I don't particularly want her
chasing us."  He looked around. "Let's  see if we can  find somebody with a
boat  to row  us upriver  to Seline. We  should be  able to buy  horses and
supplies there."

A fisherman, who immediately  saw that turning ferryboatman would provide a
more certain  profit than trusting his luck on  the banks off the northwest
coast, agreed  to take them upriver; by the time  the sun was setting, they
had arrived  in the city of  Seline. They spent the  night in a comfortable
inn and  went the following morning to  the central market. Silk negotiated
the purchase  of horses, haggling  down to the last  penny, bargaining more
out of  habit, Garion  thought, than out  of any real  necessity. Then they
bought supplies  for the trip. By midmorning,  they were pounding along the
road that led toward Darine, some forty leagues distant.

The fields of northern  Sendaria had begun to sprout that first green blush
that  lay on  damp  earth like  a faint  jade mist  and more  than anything
announced spring. A few fleecy clouds scampered across the blue of the sky,
and, though  the wind  was gusty, the  sun warmed the air.  The road opened
before them, stretching across the verdant fields; and though their mission
was deadly  serious, Garion almost wanted to  shout out of pure exuberance.

In two more days they reached Darine.

"Do you  want to take ship here?" Silk asked  Belgarath as they crested the
hill  up  which they  had  come  so many  months  before  with their  three
wagonloads   of  turnips.   "We   could  be   in  Kotu   inside   a  week."

Belgarath scratched at his beard, looking out at the expanse of the Gulf of
Cherek, glittering in the afternoon sun. "I don't think so," he decided. He
pointed at  several lean Cherek warboats  patrolling just outside Sendarian
territorial waters.

"The Chereks  are always moving around out  there," Silk replied. "It might
have nothing whatsoever to do with us."

"Polgara's very persistent," Belgarath  said. "She can't leave Riva herself
as long as  so many things are afoot there, but she  can send people out to
look for us. Let's avoid any possible trouble if we can. We'll go along the
north coast and then on up through the fens to Boktor."

Silk gave him a  look of profound distaste. "It will take a lot longer," he
objected.

"We aren't  in all  that great a  hurry," Belgarath remarked  blandly. "The
Alorns are  beginning to mass their armies, but  they still need more time,
and it's  going to take  a while to get  the Arends all moving  in the same
direction."

"What's that got to do with it?" Silk asked him.

"I have plans for those armies, and I'd like to start them moving before we
cross  into  Gar og  Nadrak  if possible  and  certainly before  we get  to
Mallorea. We  can afford the time it will  take to avoid any unpleasantness
with the people Polgara's sent out to find us."

And so they detoured around Darine and took the narrow, rocky road that led
along the  cliffs where  the waves crashed  and boomed and  foamed, beating
themselves  to  fragments  against  the great  rocks  of  the north  coast.

The mountains  of eastern Sendaria ran  down into the Gulf  of Cherek along
that forbidding shore, and  the road, which twisted and climbed and dropped
steeply  again,  was  not  good.  Silk  grumbled  every mile  of  the  way.

Garion, however, had other  worries. The decision he had made after reading
the Mrin  Codex had seemed quite  logical at the time,  but logic was scant
comfort now. He was  deliberately riding toward Mallorea to face Torak in a
duel. The more he thought about it, the more insane it seemed. How could he
possibly hope to defeat  a God? He brooded about that as they rode eastward
along  the  rocky coast,  and  his  mood became  as  unpleasant as  Silk's.

After  about a  week, the  cliffs became  lower, and  the land  more gently
rolling. From the top of the last of the eastern foothills, they looked out
and  saw  what appeared  to  be a  vast,  flat plain,  dark-green and  very
damp-looking.

"Well, there they are," Silk sourly informed Belgarath.

"What's got you so bad-tempered?" the old man asked him.

"One of the main reasons I left Drasnia in the first place was to avoid the
possibility  of ever  being  obliged to  go anywhere  near the  fens," Silk
replied crisply.  "Now you propose to drag  me lengthwise through the whole
soggy,  stinking expanse  of them.  I'm bitterly  disappointed in  you, old
friend, and it's altogether possible that I'll never forgive you for this."

Garion was  frowning at the  marshland spread out below.  "That wouldn't be
Drasnia, would  it?" he asked. "I thought  that Drasnia was farther north."

"It's Algaria, actually," Belgarath  told him. "The beginning of Aldurfens.
Up beyond  the mouths of the Aldur River is  the Drasnian border. They call
it Mrin marsh up there, but it's all the same swamp. It goes on for another
thirty  leagues  or  so  beyond Kotu  at  the  mouth  of  the Mrin  River."

"Most people  just call it the fens and let it  go at that," Silk observed.
"Most people have sense enough to stay out of it," he added pointedly.

"Quit  complaining  so  much,"  Belgarath  told  him  bluntly.  "There  are
fishermen along this coast. We'll buy a boat."

Silk's eyes brightened. "We  can go up along the coast then," he suggested.

"That  wouldn't be  very prudent,"  Belgarath disagreed, "not  with Anheg's
fleet scouring the Gulf of Cherek, looking for us."

"You don't know that they're looking for us," Silk said quickly.

"I know Polgara," Belgarath answered.

"I feel that this trip is definitely growing sour on us," Silk grumbled.

The fishermen along the  marshy coast were a peculiar mixture of Algars and
Drasnians, close-mouthed  and wary of strangers.  Their villages were built
on pilings driven deep into the marshy earth, and there lingered about them
that  peculiar odor  of long-dead  fish that  hovers over  fishing villages
wherever one finds them. It took some time to find a man with a boat he was
willing to sell and even longer to persuade him that three horses and a few
silver coins beside was a fair price for it.

"It leaks,"  Silk declared,  pointing at the  inch or so of  water that had
collected in  the bottom  of the boat  as they poled away  from the reeking
village.

"All boats leak, Silk," Belgarath replied calmly. "It's the nature of boats
to leak. Bail it out."

"It will just fill up again."

"Then you  can bail it out  again. Try not to  let it get too  far ahead of
you."

The fens stretched on interminably, a wilderness of cattails and rushes and
dark,  slowly  moving water.  There  were  channels and  streams and  quite
frequently small  lakes where the going was much  easier. The air was humid
and, in  the evenings, thick with gnats and  mosquitoes. Frogs sang of love
all night,  greeting spring  with intoxicated fervor-little  chirping frogs
and great, booming, bull-voiced  frogs as big as dinner plates. Fish leaped
in the  ponds and lakes, and  beaver and muskrats nested  on soggy islands.

They  poled their  way through  the confused  maze of channels  marking the
mouths  of the  Aldur  and continued  northeasterly in  the  slowly warming
northern  spring. After  a  week or  more, they  crossed  the indeterminate
border and left Algaria behind.

A false  channel put them aground once, and they  were obliged to climb out
to heave and push their boat off a mudbank by main strength. When they were
afloat again,  Silk sat disconsolately on  the gunwale regarding his ruined
boots that were dripping thick mud into the water. When he spoke, his voice
was filled with profound  disgust. "Delightful," he said. "How wonderful to
be home again in dear old mucky Drasnia."

                              Chapter Eighteen

ALTHOUGH IT  WAS all one vast swampland, it seemed  to Garion that the fens
here  in  Drasnia  were  subtly different  from  those  farther south.  The
channels were  narrower, for  one thing, and  they twisted and  turned more
frequently.  After  a  couple  of  days  poling,  he  developed  a  growing
conviction that they were  lost. "Are you sure you know where we're going?"
he demanded of Silk.

"I haven't the vaguest idea," Silk replied candidly.

"You keep  saying that  you know the  way everywhere," Garion  accused him.

"There isn't any certain way here in the fens, Garion," Silk told him. "All
you  can do  is  keep going  against the  current and  hope for  the best."

"There's  got to  be  a route,"  Garion objected.  "Why  don't they  put up
markers or something?"

"It  wouldn't do any  good. Look." The  little man  put his pole  against a
solid-looking hummock  rising out of the water  beside the boat and pushed.
The  hummock  moved sluggishly  away.  Garion  stared at  it in  amazement.

"It's  floating vegetation,"  Belgarath explained,  stopping his  poling to
wipe the  sweat from his face.  "Seeds fall on it,  and it grows grass just
like solid earth -  except that it isn't solid. It floats wherever the wind
and current  push it.  That's why there  aren't any permanent  channels and
there's no definite route."

"It's not always just  wind and current," Silk added darkly. He glanced out
at the lowering sun. "We'd better find something solid to tie up to for the
night," he suggested.

"How about that one?"  Belgarath replied, pointing at a brushy hummock that
was somewhat higher than those surrounding it.

They poled  their way to the clump of ground  rising out of the surrounding
water, and  Silk kicked at it  experimentally a few times.  "It seems to be
stationary," he  confirmed. He stepped out  of the boat and  climbed to the
top,   frequently  stamping   his  feet.   The  ground  responded   with  a
satisfactorily solid sound. "There's a dry spot up here," he reported, "and
a pile of  driftwood on the other side. We can sleep  on solid ground for a
change, and maybe even have a hot meal."

They  pulled the  boat far  up onto  the sloping  side, and Silk  took some
rather  exotic-seeming precautions  to  make certain  that it  was securely
tied.

"Isn't that sort of unnecessary?" Garion asked him.

"It isn't much of  a boat," Silk replied, "but it's the only one we've got.
Let's not take chances with it."

They  got a  fire going  and erected  their single  tent as the  sun slowly
settled in  a cloudbank  to the west,  painting the marsh in  a ruddy glow.
Silk dug out a few pans and began to work on supper.

"It's  too hot,"  Garion  advised critically  as the  rat-faced  little man
prepared to lay strips of bacon in a smoking iron pan.

"Do you want to do this?"

"I was just warning you, that's all."

"I don't have your advantages, Garion," Silk replied tartly. "I didn't grow
up in  Polgara's kitchen the way  you did. I just make  do the best I can."

"You don't have to get grumpy about it," Garion said. "I just thought you'd
like to know that the pan's too hot."

"I think I can manage without any more advice."

"Suit yourself - but you're going to burn the bacon."

Silk gave him an  irritated look and started slapping bacon slices into the
pan. The  slices sizzled  and smoked, and  their edges turned  black almost
immediately.

"I told you so," Garion murmured.

"Belgarath," Silk complained, "make him leave me alone."

"Come  away, Garion,"  the old man  said. "He  can burn supper  without any
help."

"Thanks," Silk responded sarcastically.

Supper  was  not an  absolute  disaster.  After they  had  eaten, they  sat
watching as the fire  burned down and purple evening crept across the fens.
The frogs  took up their vast chorus among the  reeds, and birds perched on
the bending stalks of cattails, clucking and murmuring sleepily. There were
faint  splashes and  rippling  sounds in  the  brown water  about them  and
occasional eruptions  of bubbles as swamp gas  gurgled to the surface. Silk
sighed  bitterly. "I  hate this  place," he  said. "I absolutely  hate it."

That night  Garion had  a nightmare. It  was not the first  he had suffered
since they  had left Riva; and as he  sat up, sweat-drenched and trembling,
he was positive  it would not be the last. It was  not a new nightmare, but
rather  was one  which had  periodically haunted  his sleep  since boyhood.
Unlike  an ordinary  bad dream, this  one did  not involve being  chased or
threatened,  but  consisted rather  of  a single  image  - the  image of  a
hideously maimed face. Although he had never actually seen the owner of the
face, he  knew exactly whose face it was, and now  he knew why it inhabited
his darkest dreams.

The next day dawned  cloudy with a threat of approaching rain. As Belgarath
stirred  up the  fire  and Silk  rummaged  through his  pack for  something
suitable for breakfast, Garion stood looking out at the swamp around him. A
flight of geese swept  by overhead in a ragged V, their wings whistling and
their muted  cries drifting, lonely and remote. A  fish jumped not far from
the edge of the hummock, and Garion watched the ripples widening out toward
the  far shore.  He  looked for  quite some  time at  that shore  before he
realized exactly what it  was he was seeing. Concerned, then a bit alarmed,
he began to peer first this way and then that.

"Grandfather!" he cried. "Look!"

"At what?"

"It's all changed. There  aren't any channels any more. We're in the middle
of  a  big pond,  and there  isn't  any way  out  of it."  He spun  around,
desperately trying  to see  some exit, but  the edges of the  pond in which
they sat  were totally unbroken. There were no  channels leading out of it,
and the  brown water was absolutely still,  showing no evidence of current.

Then  in the  center of  the pond, without  making so  much as a  ripple, a
round,  furred head  emerged from  the water.  The animal's eyes  were very
large and bright; it had no external ears, and its little nose was as black
as a  button. It made a  peculiar chirping noise, and  another head emerged
out of the water a few feet away.

"Fenlings!" Silk gasped, drawing his short sword with a steely rustle.

"Oh, put that away,"  Belgarath told him disgustedly. "They aren't going to
hurt you."

"They've trapped us, haven't they?"

"What do they want?" Garion asked.

"Breakfast, obviously," Silk answered, still holding his sword.

"Don't be stupid, Silk,"  Belgarath told him. "Why would they want to eat a
raw Drasnian when there's a whole swampful of fish available? Put the sword
away."

The first  fenling which had poked its head up out  of the water lifted one
of its  webbed forefeet and made a peremptory  gesture. The webbed foot was
strangely handlike.

"They seem to want us to follow them," Belgarath said calmly.

"And you're going to do it?" Silk was aghast. "Are you mad?"

"Do we have any choice?"

Without further discussion, Belgarath began taking down the tent.

"Are  they monsters,  Grandfather?"  Garion asked  worriedly as  he helped.
"Like Algroths or Trolls?"

"No,  they're  just  animals-like  seals  or beaver.  They're  curious  and
intelligent and very playful."

"But they play very nasty games," Silk added.

After they  had stowed all their  packs into the boat,  they pushed it down
the  bank into  the  water. The  fenlings  watched them  curiously with  no
particular  threat or  malice  in their  gaze, but  rather  a kind  of firm
determination on  their furry  little faces. The solid-looking  edge of the
pond opened  then to reveal the channel that  had been concealed during the
night. The  strangely rounded head of the fenling  who had gestured to them
moved on ahead, leading  the way and glancing back often to be certain they
were  following. Several others  trailed after  the boat, their  large eyes
alert.

It began  to rain,  a few drops  at first, and  then a  steady drizzle that
veiled the endless expanse  of reed and cattail stretching out on all sides
of them.

"Where do you think  they're taking us?" Silk asked, stopping his poling to
wipe  the  rain out  of  his  face. One  of  the fenlings  behind the  boat
chattered angrily at him until he dug his pole into the muddy bottom of the
channel again.

"We'll just have to wait and see," Belgarath replied.

The channel  continued to open before them,  and they poled steadily along,
following the round-headed fenling who had first appeared.

"Are those  trees up  ahead?" Silk asked,  peering into the  misty drizzle.

"It appears so," Belgarath  answered. "I suspect that's where we're going."

The  large cluster  of trees  slowly emerged  from the  mist. As  they drew
closer, Garion  could see  a gentle rise  of ground swelling up  out of the
reeds and  water. The grove which crowned the  island appeared to be mostly
willows with long, trailing branches.

The fenling  who had been leading  them swam on ahead.  When it reached the
island, it emerged half out of the water and gave a strange, whistling cry.
A moment  or so later, a  hooded figure stepped out  of the trees and moved
slowly down  to the  bank. Garion did not  know what to expect,  but he was
more  than a  little startled  when the  brown-cloaked figure on  the shore
pushed back the hood  to reveal a woman's face that, though very old, still
bore  the luminous  trace of  what had  once been an  extraordinary beauty.

"Hail, Belgarath," she greeted  the old sorcerer in an oddly neutral voice.

"Hello,  Vordai," he  replied conversationally.  "It's been quite  a while,
hasn't it?"

The little  creatures that had guided  them to the island  waded out of the
water to gather around  the brown-cloaked woman. They chirped and chattered
to her,  and she looked at them fondly, touching  their wet fur with gentle
fingers.  They were medium-sized  animals with  short hind legs  and little
rounded  bellies and  they walked  upright with  a peculiar  quick shuffle,
their   forepaws  held   delicately  in   front  of  their   furry  chests.

"Come  inside out  of  the rain,  Belgarath," the  woman said.  "Bring your
friends." She  turned and  walked up a  path leading into  the willow grove
with her fenlings scampering along beside her.

"What do we do?" Garion whispered.

"We  go inside,"  Belgarath  replied, stepping  out  of the  boat onto  the
island.

Garion was not  sure what to expect as he and Silk  followed the old man up
the path toward the dripping willows, but he was totally unprepared for the
neat, thatch-roofed cottage with  its small adjoining garden. The house was
built of weathered logs,  tightly chinked with moss, and a wispy tendril of
smoke drifted from its chimney.

At the  doorway, the woman in brown carefully wiped her  feet on a rush mat
and shook  the rain  out of her  cloak. Then she  opened the  door and went
inside without looking back.

Silk's expression  was dubious as he stopped  outside the cottage. "Are you
sure this is a good idea, Belgarath?" he asked quietly. "I've heard stories
about Vordai."

"It's the  only way to find  out what she wants,"  Belgarath told him, "and
I'm fairly  sure we aren't going any farther until  we talk with her. Let's
go in. Be sure to wipe your feet."

The interior  of Vordai's cottage was  scrupulously neat. The ceilings were
low and  heavily beamed. The wooden floor was  scrubbed to whiteness, and a
table and  chairs sat  before an arched  fireplace where a pot  hung in the
flames from an iron  arm. There were wildflowers in a vase on the table and
curtains at the window overlooking the garden.

"Why  don't  you  introduce  your  friends  to me,  Belgarath?"  the  woman
suggested, hanging her cloak  on a peg. She smoothed the front of her plain
brown dress.

"As  you wish,  Vordai,"  the old  man  replied politely.  "This is  Prince
Kheldar, your countryman. And this is King Belgarion of Riva."

"Noble  guests,"  the  woman  observed  in that  strangely  neutral  voice.
"Welcome to the house of Vordai."

"Forgive  me, madame,"  Silk  said in  his most  courtly manner,  "but your
reputation seems to be grossly inaccurate."

"Vordai, the witch of  the fens?" she asked, looking amused. "Do they still
call me that?"

He smiled in return. "Their descriptions are misleading, to say the least."

"The hag  of the swamps." She  mimicked the speech of  a credulous peasant.
"Drowner of travellers and queen of the fenlings." There was a bitter twist
to her lips.

"That's more  or less what they  say," he told her.  "I always believed you
were a myth conjured up to frighten unruly children."

"Vordai  will get you  and gobble you  up!" She  laughed, but there  was no
humor in  her laughter. "I've  been hearing that for  generations. Take off
your cloaks, gentlemen. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. You'll be
staying for a while."

One  of the  fenlings -  the one  who had  led them  to the  island, Garion
thought - chattered at  her in a piping little voice, glancing nervously at
the pot hanging in the fire.

"Yes," she answered quite  calmly, "I know that it's boiling, Tupik. It has
to boil  or it won't cook." She turned back  to her guests. "Breakfast will
be ready in a  bit," she told them. "Tupik tells me you haven't eaten yet."

"You can communicate with them?" Silk sounded surprised.

"Isn't that  obvious, Prince Kheldar? Here, let me  hang your cloaks by the
fire to  dry." She stopped and  regarded Garion gravely. "So  great a sword
for one  so young," she noted,  looking at the great  hilt rising above his
shoulder. "Stand it in  the corner, King Belgarion. There's no one to fight
here."

Garion inclined his head  politely, unbuckled the sword belt and handed her
his cloak.

Another, somewhat  smaller fenling  darted out of  a comer with  a piece of
cloth  and began  busily wiping up  the water  that had dripped  from their
cloaks, chattering disapprovingly all the while.

"You'll  have  to  forgive  Poppi."  Vordai smiled.  "She's  obsessed  with
tidiness. I sometimes think that, if I left her alone, she'd sweep holes in
the floor."

"They're changing, Vordai," Belgarath  said gravely, seating himself at the
table.

"I know,"  she replied,  going to the  fireplace to stir  the bubbling pot.
"I've watched them over the years. They're not the same as they were when I
came here."

"It was a mistake to tamper with them," he told her.

"So you've  said before  - you and Polgara  both. How is she,  by the way?"

"Probably  raging by  now. We slipped  out of  the Citadel at  Riva without
telling her we were leaving, and that sort of thing irritates her."

"Polgara was born irritable."

"We agree on that point anyway."

"Breakfast's ready." She lifted  the pot with a curved iron hook and set it
on the  table. Poppi scampered over to a  cupboard standing against the far
wall and  brought back a stack  of wooden bowls, then  returned for spoons.
Her large  eyes were very bright, and she  chittered seriously at the three
visitors.

"She's telling  you not to drop crumbs on  her clean floor," Vordai advised
them, removing a steaming loaf of bread from an oven built into the side of
the fireplace. "Crumbs infuriate her."

"We'll be careful," Belgarath promised.

It was  a peculiar  sort of breakfast,  Garion thought. The  stew that came
steaming from  the pot was  thick, with strange vegetables  floating in it,
and large chunks of fish. It was delicately seasoned, however, and he found
it delicious.  By the  time he had  finished eating, he  rather reluctantly
concluded  that  Vordai  might  even  be  as  good  a  cook  as  Aunt  Pol.

"Excellent, Vordai,"  Belgarath complimented her, finally  pushing his bowl
away. "Now  suppose we  get down to  business. Why did you  have us brought
here?"

"To  talk,  Belgarath,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  get  much  company,  and
conversation's a  good way to pass a rainy morning.  Why have you come into
the fens?"

"The Prophecy moves on, Vordai - even if sometimes we don't. The Rivan King
has returned, and Torak stirs in his sleep."

"Ah," she said without much real interest.

"The Orb of Aldur stands on the pommel of Belgarion's sword. The day is not
far off  when the  Child of Light  and the Child  of Dark must  meet. We go
toward   that    meeting,   and   all   mankind    awaits   the   outcome."

"Except  me, Belgarath."  She  gave him  a penetrating  look. "The  fate of
mankind is  a matter  of only the  mildest curiosity to me.  I was excluded
from mankind three hundred years ago, you'll remember."

"Those people are all long dead, Vordai."

"Their descendants are no  different. Could I walk into any village in this
part of  Drasnia and tell the good villagers who  I am without being stoned
or burned?"

"Villagers are the same  the world over, madame," Silk put in. "Provincial,
stupid, and superstitious. Not all men are like that."

"All men are the same, Prince Kheldar," she disagreed. "When I was young, I
tried  to involve myself  in the affairs  of my  village. I only  wanted to
help, but  very soon not a  cow died or a baby  took colic without my being
blamed for  it. They  stoned me finally  and tried to  drag me  back to the
village to  burn me at the  stake. They had quite  a celebration planned. I
managed to escape, though, and I took refuge here in the fens. After that I
had very little interest in the affairs of men."

"You  probably  shouldn't have  displayed  your talents  quite so  openly,"
Belgarath told  her. "People prefer not  to believe in that  sort of thing.
There's a  whole catalogue of  nasty little emotions curdling  in the human
spirit,  and  anything  the  least  bit  out  of the  ordinary  raises  the
possibility of retribution."

"My village learned that  it was more than a possibility," she replied with
a certain grim satisfaction.

"What happened?" Garion asked curiously.

"It started raining," Vordai told him with an odd smile.

"Is that all?"

"It was  enough. It rained on  that village for five  years, King Belgarion
just on  the village. A hundred yards beyond  the last house everything was
normal, but  in the village there  was rain. They tried  to move twice, but
the rain  followed them. Finally they gave up and left  the area. For all I
know, some of their descendants are still wandering."

"You're not serious," Silk scoffed.

"Quite  serious." She  gave  him an  amused look.  "Your  credulity appears
selective,  Prince Kheldar.  Here  you are,  going about  the world  in the
company of  Belgarath the Sorcerer. I'm sure you  believe in his power; but
you can't  bring yourself to accept  the idea of the  power of the witch of
the fens."

Silk stared at her.

"I really am a  witch, Prince Kheldar. I could demonstrate if you wish, but
I   don't   think   you'd   like  it   very   much.   People  seldom   do."

"That isn't really necessary, Vordai," Belgarath said. "What is it that you
want exactly?"

"I was  coming to that, Belgarath," she replied.  "After I escaped into the
fens, I discovered my  little friends here." She affectionately stroked the
side  of  Poppi's  furry  little  face,  and  Poppi  nuzzled  at  her  hand
ecstatically. "They were afraid  of me at first, but they finally grew less
shy. They  began bringing me fish - and flowers  - as tokens of friendship,
and I needed  friends very badly at that time. I altered  them a bit out of
gratitude."

"You shouldn't have, you know," the old man said rather sadly.

She  shrugged. "Should  and shouldn't  have very  little meaning to  me any
more."

"Not even the Gods would do what you did."

"The Gods  have other amusements."  She looked directly at  him then. "I've
been  waiting for you,  Belgarath - for  years now.  I knew that  sooner or
later  you'd come back  into the fens.  This meeting  you spoke of  is very
important to you, isn't it?"

"It's   the  most   important  event   in  the   history  of   the  world."

"That depends on your  point of view, I suppose. You need my help, though."

"I think we can manage, Vordai."

"Perhaps, but how do you expect to get out of the fens?"

He looked at her sharply.

"I can open the  way for you to the dry ground at the edge of the swamp, or
I can see to  it that you wander around in these marshes forever - in which
case this  meeting you're concerned about will  never happen, will it? That
puts   me   in   a  very   interesting   situation,   wouldn't  you   say?"

Belgarath's eyes narrowed.

"I  discovered that  when  men deal  with  each other,  there's usually  an
exchange of  some kind," she added with  a strange little smile. "Something
for something; nothing for nothing. It seems to be a sensible arrangement."

"Exactly what did you have in mind?"

"The  fenlings are  my friends," she  replied. "In  a very special  way, my
children. But  men look upon them  as animals with pelts  worth the taking.
They  trap them,  Belgarath, and  they kill  them for  their fur.  The fine
ladies in Boktor and  Kotu dress themselves in the skins of my children and
give no  thought to the grief  it causes me. They  call my children animals
and they come into the fens to hunt them."

"They are animals, Vordai," he told her gently.

"Not any  more." Almost without seeming to think,  Vordai put her arm about
Poppi's  shoulders. "It may  be that you  were right  when you said  that I
shouldn't  have tampered  with them,  but it's  too late  now to  change it
back."  She  sighed.  "I'm  a  witch,  Belgarath," she  continued,  "not  a
sorceress. My  life has  a beginning and  an end, and  it's approaching its
end,  I think. I  won't live forever,  as you  and Polgara have  done. I've
lived several hundred years  already and I'm growing very tired of life. As
long as I'm  alive, I can keep men from coming into  the fens; but once I'm
gone, my children will have no protection."

"And you want me to take them into my care?"

"No,  Belgarath. You're  too busy;  and sometimes  you forget  promises you
don't care  to remember. I want  you to do the one  thing that will make it
forever  impossible  for  men   to  think  of  the  fenlings  as  animals."

His   eyes   widened  as   what   she   was  suggesting   dawned  on   him.

"I want  you to  give my children  the power of  speech, Belgarath," Vordai
said. "I can't do it. My witchcraft doesn't reach that far. Only a sorcerer
can make it possible for them to talk."

"Vordai-"

"That's my price, Belgarath,"  she told him. "That's what my help will cost
you. Take it or leave it."





Chapter Nineteen

THEY SLEPT THAT night in Vordai's cottage, though Garion slept very little.
The ultimatum  of the  witch of the  fens troubled him  profoundly. He knew
that tampering  with nature had far-reaching  effects, and to go  as far as
Vordai  wished  might  forever  erase the  dividing  line  between men  and
animals. The  philosophical and theological implications  of that step were
staggering. There  were, moreover, other worries.  It was entirely possible
that Belgarath could not  do what Vordai demanded of him. Garion was almost
positive that  his grandfather had not attempted to  use his will since his
collapse months  before, and  now Vordai had  set him an  almost impossible
task.

What would  happen to Belgarath if he tried and  failed? What would that do
to him?  Would the doubts then take over and rob  him of any possibility of
ever regaining  his power?  Desperately Garion tried  to think of  a way to
warn    his   grandfather    without    arousing   those    fatal   doubts.

But they absolutely had  to get out of the fens. However reluctantly Garion
had  made the  decision to  meet Torak, he  now knew  that it was  the only
possible choice  open to  him. The meeting,  however, could not  be delayed
indefinitely. If  it were put off  too long, events would  move on, and the
world would be plunged  into the war they were all so desperately trying to
head  off,  Vordai's threat  to  trap  them all  here  in  the fens  unless
Belgarath paid her price threatened not only them, but the entire world. In
a very real sense,  she held the fate of all mankind in her uncaring hands.
Try though he might, Garion could not think of any way to avoid the test of
Belgarath's will. Though he  would reluctantly have done what Vordai wished
himself, he did  not even know where to begin. If it  could be done at all,
his grandfather  was the  only one who  could do it-if his  illness had not
destroyed his power.

When dawn crept through  the misty fens, Belgarath arose and sat before the
fire, brooding into the crackling flames with a somber face.

"Well?" Vordai asked him. "Have you decided?"

"It's wrong, Vordai," he told her. "Nature cries out against it."

"I'm much closer to  nature than you are, Belgarath," she replied. "Witches
live more intimately with  her than sorcerers do. I can feel the turning of
the seasons  in my blood, and  the earth is alive under  my feet. I hear no
outcry.  Nature loves  all  her creatures,  and she  would grieve  over the
obliteration of  my fenlings almost as much as  I. But that's really beside
the point, isn't it?  Even though the very rocks shrieked out against it, I
would not relent."

Silk exchanged  a quick look with  Garion, and the little  man's sharp face
seemed as troubled as Belgarath's.

"Are the  fenlings really  beasts?" Vordai continued. She  pointed to where
Poppi  still slept, her  delicate forepaws  open like little  hands. Tupik,
moving  stealthily,  crept  back  into the  house,  carrying  a handful  of
dew-drenched  swamp flowers. With  precise care,  he placed them  about the
slumbering Poppi and gently  laid the last one in her open hand. Then, with
an oddly patient expression, he sat on his haunches to watch her awakening.

Poppi stirred, stretched, and  yawned. She brought the flower to her little
black  nose and  sniffed  at it,  looking affectionately  at  the expectant
Tupik.  She made  a happy  little chirping  sound, and  then she  and Tupik
scampered off  together for a morning swim in the  cool water of the swamp.

"It's a  courting ritual," Vordai  explained. "Tupik wants Poppi  to be his
mate, and as long as she continues to accept his gifts, he knows that she's
still fond of him. It will go on for quite some time, and then they'll swim
off into the swamp  together for a week or so. When they come back, they'll
be mates  for life. Is that  really so different from  the way young humans
behave?"

Her question profoundly disturbed Garion for some reason he could not quite
put his finger on.

"Look there,"  Vordai told them, pointing through the  window at a group of
young fenlings,  scarcely more than  babies, at play. They  had fashioned a
ball  out of moss  and were rapidly  passing it  around in a  circle, their
large eyes  intent on their game.  "Couldn't a human child  join that group
and   not  feel  the   slightest  bit   out  of  place?"   Vordai  pressed.

Not far beyond the game, a mature female fenling cradled her sleeping baby,
rocking  gently  with  her  cheek against  the  little  one's face.  "Isn't
motherhood  universal?" Vordai asked.  "In what  way do my  children differ
from  humans?-except  that they're  perhaps  more decent,  more honest  and
loving with each other?"

Belgarath sighed.  "All right,  Vordai," he said, "you've  made your point.
I'll grant that the fenlings are probably nicer creatures than men. I don't
know  that speech  will  improve them,  but if  that's  what you  want-" He
shrugged.

"You'll do it then?"

"I know  it's wrong, but I'll  try to do what you  ask. I really don't have
much choice, do I?"

"No,"  she replied,  "you don't.  Will you  need anything?  I have  all the
customary implements and compounds."

He shook his head.  "Sorcery doesn't work that way. Witchcraft involves the
summoning of  spirits, but  sorcery comes all  from within. Someday,  if we
have  the leisure,  I'll explain the  difference to  you." He stood  up. "I
don't   suppose   you'd   care   to   change   your   mind   about   this?"

Her face hardened. "No, Belgarath," she replied.

He  sighed again. "All  right, Vordai. I'll  be back  in a bit."  He turned
quietly and walked out into the mist-shrouded morning.

In the  silence that followed his  departure, Garion closely watched Vordai
for  some hint  that  her determination  might not  be  as iron-hard  as it
seemed. It  had occurred  to him that  if she were not  blindly adamant, he
might  be able  to explain the  situation and  persuade her to  relent. The
witch  of  the fens  paced  nervously  about the  room,  picking things  up
absently and setting them  down again. She seemed unable to concentrate her
attention on any one thing for more than a moment.

"This may  ruin him, you know," Garion  told her quietly. Bluntness perhaps
might sway her where other attempts at persuasion had failed.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded sharply.

"He was very ill  last winter," Garion replied. "He and Ctuchik fought each
other  for possession  of  the Orb.  Ctuchik was  destroyed,  but Belgarath
nearly died  too. It's quite possible  that his power was  destroyed by his
illness."

Silk's gasp  was clearly audible.  "Why didn't you tell  us?" he exclaimed.

"Aunt Pol  said that  we didn't dare,"  Garion said. "We  couldn't take any
chance of word of it getting back to the Angaraks. Belgarath's power is the
one thing  that's held them in  check all these years.  If he's lost it and
they find out, they'll feel free to invade the West."

"Does he know?" Vordai asked quickly.

"I don't  think so.  Neither one of  us said anything  to him  about it. We
couldn't let him think for a moment that anything might be wrong. If he has
one  single doubt,  it  won't work  for him.  That's  the main  thing about
sorcery.  You have to  believe that what  you want  to happen is  going to.
Otherwise, nothing happens at all - and each time you fail, it gets worse."

"What did  you mean when you said that this  might ruin him?" Vordai's face
looked stricken, and Garion began to have some hope. "He may still have his
power -  or some  of it," he explained.  "But not enough to  do what you've
asked of  him. It takes a  tremendous effort to do  even simple things, and
what you've  asked him  to do is very  difficult. It could be  too much for
him; but once he starts, he won't be able to stop. And the effort may drain
his will  and his  life energy until he  cannot ever recover -  or until he
dies."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Vordai demanded, her face anguished.

"I couldn't - not without his hearing me, too."

She  turned quickly toward  the door.  "Belgarath!" she cried.  "Waitl" She
spun back to Garion. "Go after him! Stop himl"

That was what Garion had been waiting for. He jumped to his feet and ran to
the door.  As he swung it  open and was about to  call out across the rainy
yard, he felt a  strange oppression as if something were almost happening -
almost, but not quite. The shout froze on his lips.

"Go on, Garion," Silk urged him.

"I  can't," Garion  groaned. "He's already  begun to  pull in his  will. He
wouIdn't even hear me."

"Can you help him?"

"I don't  even know exactly what  he's trying to do,  Silk," Garion replied
helplessly. "If  I went blundering in there now, all  I'd do is make things
worse."

They stared at him in consternation.

Garion felt  a strange echoing surge. It was not at  all what he ex pected,
and so he was  totally unprepared for it. His grandfather was not trying to
move anything or change anything, but instead he was calling out - reaching
across some vast distance with the voice of his mind. The words were not at
all  distinct, but  the  one word,  "Master," did  come through  once quite
distinctly. Belgarath  was trying  to reach Aldur. Garion  held his breath.

Then, from infinitely far  away, Aldur's voice replied. They spoke together
quietly for several moments,  and all the while Garion could feel the force
of Belgarath's  will, infused and  magnified by the will  of Aldur, growing
stronger and stronger.

"What's happening?" Silk's voice was almost frightened.

"He's talking with Aldur. I can't hear what they're saying."

"Will Aldur help him?" Vordai asked.

"I  don't know.  I don't  know if  Aldur can  use his  will here  any more.
There's  some kind  of limitation -  something that  he and the  other Gods
agreed to."

Then  the  strange conversation  ended,  and Garion  felt Belgarath's  will
mounting, gathering itself. "He's begun," Garion said in a half whisper.

"His power's still there?" Silk asked.

Garion nodded.

"As strong as ever?"

"I don't know. There's no way to measure it."

The tension of it  grew until it was almost intolerable. What Belgarath was
doing was at once very subtle and very profound. There was no rushing surge
or hollow echo this  time. Instead, Garion felt an odd, tingling whisper as
the  old man's  will  was unleashed  with agonizing  slowness.  The whisper
seemed to be saying something over and over - something Garion could almost
understand, but which tantalizingly eluded him.

Outside, the young fenlings  stopped their game. The ball dropped unnoticed
as the  players all  stood, listening intently. Poppi  and Tupik, returning
hand in  hand from their swim,  froze in their tracks  and stood with their
heads  cocked as Belgarath's  whisper spoke  gently to them,  reaching down
into  their  thoughts, murmuring,  explaining,  teaching.  Then their  eyes
widened as if in sudden understanding.

Belgarath emerged finally from the misty willows, his step heavy, weary. He
walked slowly  toward the house, stopping just  outside to look intently at
the stunned faces of  the fenlings gathered in the dooryard. He nodded then
and came  back inside. His shoulders were  slumped with exhaustion, and his
white-bearded face seemed drained.

"Are  you all  right?" Vordai  asked him,  her tone  no longer  neutral. He
nodded and  sank into a chair  by the table. "It's  done," he said shortly.

Vordai   looked    at   him,   and   her    eyes   narrowed   suspiciously.

"No tricks, Vordai," he said. "And I'm too tired to try to lie to you. I've
paid  your price.  If  it's all  right with  you,  we'll leave  right after
breakfast. We still have a long way to go."

"I'll need more than  just your word, Belgarath. I don't really trust you -
or any human, for that matter. I want proof that you've paid."

But there was a strange new voice from the doorway. Poppi, her furry little
face contorted with the  effort, was struggling with something. "M-m.m-m-,"
she  stammered. Her  mouth  twisted, and  she tried  again.  "M-m-m-m-." It
seemed to  be the hardest thing  she had ever tried to  do. She took a deep
breath    and   tried    once    more.   "M-m-m-motherrr,"    Poppi   said.

With a  low cry, Vordai rushed to the  little creature, knelt, and embraced
her.

"Mother," Poppi said again. It was clearer this time.

From  outside the  cottage there  came a  growing babble of  small, squeaky
voices,  all  repeating, "Mother,  mother,  mother."  The excited  fenlings
converged on  the cottage, their voices  swelling as more and  more of them
emerged from the swamps.

Vordai wept.

"You'll have  to teach  them, of course,"  Belgarath said wearily.  "I gave
them the ability, but they don't know very many words yet."

Vordai  looked at  him  with tears  streaming  down her  face. "Thank  you,
Belgarath," she said in a faltering voice.

The old  man shrugged. "Something for  something," he replied. "Wasn't that
the bargain?"

It was Tupik who  led them from the fens. The little creature's chirping to
his fellows,  however, now  had words mixed  in with it  - faltering, often
badly mispronounced, but words nonetheless.

Garion thought  for a long time before he spoke,  wrestling with an idea as
he pushed on his pole. "Grandfather," he said finally.

"Yes, Garion,"  the old  man replied from  where he rested in  the stern of
their boat.

"You knew all along, didn't you?"

"Knew what?"

"That  it was  possible  that you  couldn't make  things happen  any more?"

Belgarath stared at him. "Where did you get that idea?" he asked.

"Aunt Pol said that after you got sick last winter, you might have lost all
your power."

"She said what?"

"She said that "

"I heard  you." The  old man was  frowning, his face  creased with thought.
"That  possibility never  even occurred  to me,"  he admitted.  Suddenly he
blinked  and his  eyes opened  very wide.  "You know,  she might  have been
right.  The illness  could have had  that sort  of effect. What  an amazing
thing."

"You didn't feel any - well - weaker?"

"What? No,  of course not." Belgarath was  still frowning, turning the idea
over  in  his mind.  "What  an amazing  thing,"  he repeated,  and then  he
suddenly laughed.

"I don't see what's so funny."

"Is that what's been  bothering you and your Aunt for all these months? The
two of  you have  been tiptoeing around  me as if  I were made  out of thin
glass."

"We  were  afraid the  Angaraks  might find  out,  and we  didn't dare  say
anything to you because-"

"Because you were afraid it might make me doubt my abilities?"

Garion nodded.

"Maybe in  the long  run it wasn't a  bad idea at that.  I certainly didn't
need any doubts plaguing me this morning."

"Was it terribly difficult?"

"Moderately  so, yes. I  wouldn't want to  have to  try that sort  of thing
every day."

"But you didn't really have to do it, did you?"

"Do what?"

"Show  the fenlings  how  to talk.  If you've  still  got your  power, then
between  the two  of us,  you and  I could  have opened a  channel straight
through to  the edge of the  swamp - no matter  what Vordai or the fenlings
could have done to try to stop us."

"I wondered  how long it was going to be before  that occurred to you," the
old man replied blandly.

Garion gave him an irritated look. "All right," he said, "why did you do it
then, since you didn't have to?"

"That  question's rather  impolite, Garion,"  Belgarath chided.  "There are
certain courtesies  customarily observed. It's not  considered good manners
to ask another sorcerer why he did something."

Garion  gave  his grandfather  an  even  harder look.  "You're evading  the
question,"  he said  bluntly.  "Let's agree  that  I don't  have very  good
manners, and then you can go ahead and answer anyway."

Belgarath appeared  slightly injured. "It's not my  fault that you and your
Aunt were so worried.  You don't really have any reason to be so cross with
me." He paused, then looked at Garion. "You're absolutely going to insist?"
he asked.

"Yes, I think I really am. Why did you do it?"

Belgarath sighed. "Vordai's been  alone for most of her life, you know," he
replied, "and  life's been  very hard to  her. Somehow I've  always thought
that  she deserved  better. Maybe  this makes  up for  it - a  little bit."

"Did Aldur agree with you?" Garion pressed. "I heard his voice when the two
of you were talking."

"Eavesdropping is really a bad habit, Garion."

"I've got lots of bad habits, Grandfather."

"I  don't know  why  you're taking  this tone  with me,  boy," the  old man
complained. "All right, since  you're going to be this way about it, I did,
as a matter  of fact, have to talk rather fast to  get my Master to agree."

"You did all of this because you felt sorry for her?"

"That's  not exactly  the right term,  Garion. Let's  just say that  I have
certain feelings about justice."

"If you knew  you were going to do it anyway, why  did you argue with her?"

Belgarath  shrugged.  "I wanted  to  be  sure that  she  really wanted  it.
Besides, it's  not a  good idea to let  people get the idea  that you'll do
anything  they ask  just because you  might feel  that they have  a certain
claim on you."

Silk was  staring at the old man  in amazement. "Compassion, Belgarath?" he
demanded  incredulously. "From  you? If  word of  this ever gets  out, your
reputation's going to be ruined."

Belgarath looked suddenly painfully embarrassed. "I don't know that we need
to spread  it around  all that much,  Silk," he said.  "People don't really
have to know about this, do they?"

Garion felt as if a door had suddenly opened. Silk, he realized, was right.
He had  never precisely  thought of it  that way, but Belgarath  did have a
certain reputation for ruthlessness. Most men felt that there was a kind of
implacableness about the Eternal  Man - a willingness to sacrifice anything
in his single-minded drive  toward a goal so obscure that no one else could
ever fully  understand it. But with  this single act of  compassion, he had
revealed  another, softer side  of his  nature. Belgarath the  Sorcerer was
capable of  human emotion and feeling, after all.  The thought of how those
feelings  had been  wounded by  all the  horrors and  pain he had  seen and
endured in  seven thousand years came  crashing in on Garion,  and he found
himself  staring   at  his   grandfather  with  a   profound  new  respect.

The edge of the  fens was marked by a solid-looking dike that stretched off
into the misty distance in either direction.

"The causeway,"  Silk told Garion, pointing at the  dike. "It's part of the
Tolnedran highway system."

"Bel-grath," Tupik  said, his head popping  up out of the  water beside the
boat, "thank-you."

"Oh, I  rather think you'd have learned  to talk eventually anyway, Tupik,"
the   old  man   replied.  "You   were  very   close  to  it,   you  know."

"May-be, may-be-not,"  Tupik disagreed. "Want-to-talk and  talk did ferent.
Not-same."

"Soon you'll learn to lie," Silk told him sardonically, "and then you'll be
as good as any man alive."

"Why learn to talk if only to lie?" Tupik asked, puzzled.

"It'll come to you in time."

Tupik frowned slightly, and  then his head slipped under the water. He came
up one more time  some distance away from the boat. "Goodbye," he called to
them.  "Tupik   thanks  you-for   Mother."  Then,  without   a  ripple,  he
disappeared.

"What a strange little creature." Belgarath smiled.

With  a  startled  exclamation,  Silk  frantically  dug  into  his  pocket.
Something a  pale green color leaped from his hand  to plop into the water.

"What's the matter?" Garion asked him.

Silk shuddered. "The little monster put a frog in my pocket."

"Perhaps it was meant as a gift," Belgarath suggested.

"A frog?"

"Then again perhaps it wasn't." Belgarath grinned. "It's a little primitive
perhaps, but it might just be the beginnings of a sense of humor."

There was  a Tolnedran  hostel a few  miles up the great  causeway that ran
north and  south through the eastern  edge of the fens.  They reached it in
the late  afternoon and purchased horses  at a price that  made Silk wince.
The  following morning  they  moved out  at a  canter  in the  direction of
Boktor.

The strange  interlude in the fens  had given Garion a  great deal to think
about. He began to  perceive that compassion was a kind of love broader and
more encompassing  than the somewhat  narrow idea he had  previously had of
that emotion. The word  love seemed, as he thought more deeply about it, to
include a great number  of things that at first glance did not seem to have
anything whatsoever  to do  with it. As  his understanding of  this grew, a
peculiar notion took hold of his imagination. His grandfather, the man they
called  Eternal,  had probably  in  his  seven thousand  years developed  a
capacity for  love beyond the ability  of other men even  remotely to guess
at. In spite of  that gruff, irntable exterior, Belgarath's entire life had
been an expression of  that transcendant love. As they rode, Garion glanced
often at  the strange  old man, and  the image of  the remote, all-powerful
sorcerer towering  above the rest of humanity  gradually faded; he began to
see the  real man behind that  image - a complicated man  to be sure, but a
very human one.

Two days later in clearing weather, they reached Boktor.





Chapter Twenty

THERE WAS  AN open quality about Boktor  that Garion noticed immediately as
they rode through its  broad streets. The houses were not for the most part
over two  storeys high, and they  were not jammed up  against each other as
they were in other  cities he had seen. The avenues were wide and straight,
and there was a minimum of litter in them.

He commented  on that as they rode  along a spacious, tree-lined boulevard.

"Boktor's   a   new  city,"   Silk   explained.   "At  least   relatively."

"I thought that it has been here since the time of Dras Bullneck."

"Oh, it has," Silk replied, "but the old city was destroyed by the Angaraks
when they invaded, five hundred years ago."

"I'd forgotten that," Garion admitted.

"After Vo  Mimbre, when  the time came  to rebuild, it was  decided to take
advantage of  the chance  to start over,"  Silk continued. He  looked about
rather distastefully. "I don't  really like Boktor," he said. "There aren't
enough  alleys and  back  streets. It's  almost impossible  to  move around
without being seen." He turned to Belgarath. "That reminds me of something,
by  the way.  It  probably wouldn't  be a  bad  idea to  avoid  the central
marketplace. I'm  rather well-known  here, and there's no  point in letting
the whole city know we've arrived."

"Do you  think we'll be able to slip  through unnoticed?" Garion asked him.

"In Boktor?" Silk laughed.  "Of course not. We've already been identified a
half  dozen times.  Spying is a  major industry  here. Porenn knew  we were
coming before we'd even  entered the city." He glanced up at a second floor
window, and  his fingers  flickered a quick  rebuke in the  gestures of the
Drasnian secret  language. The curtain  at the window gave  a guilty little
twitch. "Just too clumsy,"  he observed with profound disapproval. "Must be
a first-year student at the academy."

"Probably nervous about seeing a celebrity," Belgarath suggested. "You are,
after all, something of a legend, Silk."

"There's still  no excuse for sloppy work," Silk said.  "If I had time, I'd
stop  by the  academy and  have a  talk with  the headmaster about  it." He
sighed.  "The quality of  student work  has definitely gone  downhill since
they discontinued the use of the whipping post."

"The what?" Garion exclaimed.

"In my day,  a student who was seen by the person  he was assigned to watch
was  flogged,"  Silk  told  him.  "Flogging's  a  very  effective  teaching
technique, Garion."

Just ahead  of them a door  to a large house  opened, and a dozen uniformed
pikemen marched  out into the street,  halted and turned to  face them. The
officer  in charge came  forward and  bowed politely. "Prince  Kheldar," he
greeted Silk,  "Her Highness wonders if you'd be so good  as to stop by the
palace."

"You see,"  Silk said  to Garion. "I  told you she  knew we  were here." He
turned to  the officer. "Just out of curiosity,  captain, what would you do
if I  told you  that we didn't  feel like being  so good as to  stop by the
palace?"

"I'd probably have to insist," the captain replied.

"I rather thought you might feel that way about it."

"Are we under arrest?" Garion asked nervously.

"Not  precisely, your  Majesty," the  captain answered. "Queen  Porenn most
definitely wishes to speak  with you, however." He bowed then to Belgarath.
"Ancient One,"  he greeted  the old man  respectfully. "I think  that if we
went  around to  the side  entrance, we'd  attract less attention."  And he
turned and gave his men the order to march.

"He knows who we are," Garion muttered to Silk.

"Naturally," Silk said.

"How are we  going to get out of this? Won't Queen  Porenn just ship us all
back to Riva?"

"We'll talk to her,"  Belgarath said. "Porenn's got good sense. I'm sure we
can explain this to her."

"Unless Polgara's been issuing ultimatums," Silk added. "She does that when
she gets angry, I've noticed."

"We'll see,"

Queen Porenn was even more radiantly lovely than ever. Her slimness made it
obvious that the birth  of her first child had already occurred. Motherhood
had brought  a glow to her  face and a look of  completion to her eyes. She
greeted them fondly as  they entered the palace and led them immediately to
her  private  quarters. The  little  queen's  rooms were  somehow lacy  and
feminine  with rubies  on  the furniture  and  soft, pink  curtains at  the
windows. "Where have you  been?" she asked them as soon as they were alone.
"Polgara's frantic."

Belgarath shrugged. "She'll recover, What's happening in Riva?"

"They're directing the search for you, naturally," Porenn replied. "How did
you manage to get this far? Every road's been blocked."

"We were  ahead of  everybody, Auntie dearest." Silk  grinned impudently at
her. "By the time  they started blocking roads, we'd already gone through."

"I've asked you not to call me that, Kheldar," she admonished him.

"Forgive  me, your  Highness," he  said with  a bow, though  still grinning
mockingly.

"You're impossible," she told him.

"Of course I am," he answered. "It's part of my charm."

The queen sighed. "What am I going to do with all of you now?"

"You're going  to let  us continue our journey,"  Belgarath replied calmly.
"We'll argue  about it,  of course, but in  the end that's the  way it will
turn out."

She stared at him.

"You did ask, after all. I'm sure you feel better now that you know."

"You're as bad or worse than Kheldar," she accused.

"I've had more practice."

"It's  quite out  of the  question," she  told him  firmly. "I  have strict
orders from Polgara to send you all back to Riva."

Belgarath shrugged.

"You'll go?" She seemed surprised.

"No," he  replied, "we won't. You said that  Polgara gave you strict orders
to send  us back.  All right, then,  I give you  strict orders  not to. Now
where does that leave us?"

"That's cruel, Belgarath."

"Times are hard."

"Before we  get down to serious squabbling, do you  suppose we might have a
look at the heir to the throne?" Silk asked.

His question was artful. No new mother could resist the opportunity to show
off  her infant,  and  Queen Porenn  had already  turned toward  the cradle
standing in  the corner of the room before she  realized that she was being
cleverly manipulated.

"You're  bad, Kheldar,"  she said  reprovingly, but she  nonetheless pulled
back the  satin coverlet  to reveal the  baby that had  become the absolute
center of her life.

The Crown Prince of Drasnia was very seriously attempting to put one of his
toes in  his mouth.  With a happy little  cry, Porenn caught him  up in her
arms and hugged him.  Then she turned him and held him out for them to see.
"Isn't he beautiful?" she demanded.

"Hail,  cousin," Silk greeted  the baby  gravely. "Your timely  arrival has
insured that I will be spared the ultimate indignity."

"What's that  supposed to mean?" Porenn  asked him suspiciously. "Only that
his little pink Highness has permanently removed any possibility of my ever
ascending  the throne,"  Silk  replied. "I'd  be a  very bad  king, Porenn.
Drasnia would suffer almost  as much as I would, if that disaster ever took
place. Our  Garion here is already  a better king by  accident than I could
ever be."

"Oh dear." Porenn flushed  slightly. "That completely slipped my mind." She
curtsied somewhat  awkwardly, her  baby still in her  arms. "Your Majesty,"
she greeted Garion formally.

"Your  Highness,"  Garion answered  with  the  bow Aunt  Pol  had made  him
practice for hours.

Porenn laughed her silvery little laugh. "That all seems so inappropriate."
She  put one  hand to  the back of  Garion's neck,  drew his head  down and
kissed  him warmly.  The baby in  her other  arm cooed. "Dear  Garion," she
said. "You've grown so tall."

There wasn't much he could say to that.

The  queen studied  his face for  a moment.  "Many things have  happened to
you," she observed shrewdly. "You're not the same boy I knew in Val Alorn."

"He's making  progress," Belgarath  agreed, settling himself  into a chair.
"How many spies are listening to us at the moment, Porenn?"

"Two that I know of," she replied, returning her baby to his cradle.

Silk laughed. "And how many spies are spying on the spies?"

"Several, I'd  imagine," Porenn  told him. "If  I tried to  unravel all the
spying that goes on here, I'd never get anything done."

"I'll assume  that they're all discreet,"  Belgarath said with a meaningful
glance around at the walls and draperies.

"Of course  they are," Porenn declared,  sounding slightly offended. "We do
have  standards, you  know. Amateurs  are never  allowed to spy  inside the
palace."

"All  right, let's get  down to business,  then. Is  it really going  to be
necessary for  us to go through some  long, involved argument about whether
or not you're going to try to send us back to Riva?"

She  sighed and  then gave a  helpless little  laugh. "I suppose  not," she
surrendered.  "You are  going  to have  to give  me  an excuse  to  give to
Polgara, though."

"Just tell her that  we're acting on the instructions contained in the Mrin
Codex."

"Are there instructions in the Mrin Codex?" She sounded surprised.

"There might be," he replied. "Most of it's such unmitigated gibberish that
no one can be absolutely sure one way or the other."

"Are you asking me to try to deceive her?"

"No,  I'm asking  you to  let her  think that  I deceived  you -  there's a
difference."

"A very subtle one, Belgarath."

"It will be all  right," he assured her. "She's always ready to believe the
worst about  me. Anyway, the three  of us are on our  way to Gar og Nadrak.
Get word to Polgara that we're going to need a diversion of sorts. Tell her
that  I said  to  stop wasting  time looking  for  us and  to mass  an army
somewhere in the south - make a lot of noise. I want the Angaraks all to be
so  busy  watching  her  that  they  don't  have  time  to  look  for  us."

"What  on  earth are  you  going  to do  in  Gar og  Nadrak?" Porenn  asked
curiously.

Belgarath looked suggestively at  the walls behind which the official spies
- as  well as a few  unofficial ones-lurked. "Polgara will  know what we're
doing.   What's   the  current   situation   along   the  Nadrak   border?"

"Tense,"  she replied.  "It's not  hostile yet,  but it's  a long  way from
cordial. The Nadraks don't  really want to go to war. If it weren't for the
Grolims, I  honestly think we  could persuade them to  stay neutral. They'd
much rather kill Murgos than Drasnians."

Belgarath nodded.  "Pass the word on to your husband  that I'd like for him
to keep  a fairly tight  rein on Anheg," he  continued. "Anheg's brilliant,
but he's a trifle erratic at times. Rhodar's steadier. Tell him that what I
want in  the south is a diversion, not a  general war. Alorns sometimes get
overenthusiastic."

"I'll get word to him," Porenn promised. "When will you start?"

"Let's leave  that a bit tentative." The old man  glanced once again at the
walls of the queen's room.

"You'll stay the night, at least," she insisted.

"How could we possibly refuse?" Silk asked mockingly.

Queen Porenn  looked at him for a long moment. Then  she sighed. "I guess I
should  tell you, Kheldar,"  she said  very quietly. "Your  mother's here."

Silk's face blanched. "Here? In the palace?"

The queen  nodded. "She's in the  west wing. I've given  her that apartment
near the garden she loves so much."

Silk's hands  had begun to tremble  visibly, and his face  was still ashen.
"How   long  has   she  been   here?"  he   asked  in  a   strained  voice.

"Several weeks. She came before the baby was born."

"How is she?"

"The same." The little blond queen's voice was hushed with sadness. "You'll
have to see her, you know."

Silk drew  in a deep breath  and squared his shoulders.  His face, however,
was still  stricken. "There's no avoiding it, I  guess," he said, almost to
himself.  "I   might  as-right-get   it  over  with.   You'll  excuse  me?"

"Of course."

He turned and left the room, his face somber.

"Doesn't he like his mother?" Garion asked.

"He loves  her very much," the  queen replied. "That's why  it's so ternbly
difficult for him. She's blind-fortunately."

"Fortunately?"

"There was a pestilence  in western Drasnia about twenty years ago," Porenn
explained. "It  was a horrible disease,  and it left dreadful  scars on the
faces of  the survivors. Prince Kheldar's  mother had been one  of the most
beautiful women in Drasnia. We've concealed the truth from her. She doesn't
realize  how disfigured her  face is -  at least  we hope she  doesn't. The
meetings between Kheldar and  his mother are heartbreaking. There's no hint
in his  voice of what he  sees, but his eyes-"  She broke off. "Sometimes I
think  that's  why  he  stays  away  from  Drasnia," she  added.  Then  she
straightened. "I'll  ring for  supper," she said, "and  something to drink.
Kheldar  usually   needs  that   after  he's  visited   with  his  mother."

It was  an hour  or more before  Silk returned, and  he immediately started
drinking.  He  drank  grimly  like  a  man  bent  on  reducing  himself  to
unconsciousness as quickly as possible.

It  was an  uncomfortable evening  for Garion.  Queen Porenn cared  for her
infant  son  even while  keeping  a  watchful eye  on  Silk. Belgarath  sat
silently  in  a  chair,  and  Silk  kept drinking.  Finally,  pretending  a
weariness he did not feel, Garion went to bed.

He had not realized how much he had depended on Silk in the year and a half
he  had  known him.  The  rat-faced  little Drasnian's  sardonic humor  and
towering self  reliance had always been something to  cling to. To be sure,
Silk had his quirks  and peculiarities. He was a highstrung, complex little
man, but his unfailing  sense of humor and his mental agility had seen them
all through  some very  unpleasant situations. Now, however,  all traces of
humor and  wit were gone, and  the little man seemed  on the verge of total
collapse.

The  dreadful confrontation  toward  which they  rode seemed  all  the more
perilous now  for some  reason. Although Silk  might not have  been able to
help him  when he finally faced Torak, Garion had  counted on his friend to
assist him  through the terrible days  leading up to the  meeting. Now even
that slight  comfort seemed  to have been  taken away. Unable  to sleep, he
tossed and  turned for hours; finally, well  past midnight, he rose, pulled
his cloak about him  and padded on stockinged feet to see if his friend had
made it to bed.

Silk had  not. He still sat in the same  chair. His tankard, unnoticed, had
spilled, and he sat  with his elbows in a puddle of ale and his face in his
hands. Not far away,  her face unreadable, sat the weary little blond queen
of Drasnia.  As Garion watched from the doorway,  a muffled sound came from
between Silk's hands. With a gentle, almost tender expression, Queen Porenn
rose, came around the table and put her arms about his head, drawing him to
her. With  a despairing cry Silk  clung to her, weeping  openly like a hurt
child.

Queen Porenn  looked across  the little man's  shaking head at  Garion. Her
face quite clearly revealed  that she was aware of Silk's feelings for her.
Her look  was one of helpless compassion for this man  of whom she was fond
but not in  the way he wished - and combined with  that was a deep sympathy
for   the  suffering   his   visit  with   his  mother   had   caused  him.

Silently  Garion and  the  Queen of  Drasnia stood  looking at  each other.
Speech  was unnecessary;  they  both understood.  When at  last  Porenn did
speak, her  tone was curiously matter-of fact. "I think  you can put him to
bed now,"  she said.  "Once he's able  to cry, the worst  is usually over."

The next morning they left the palace and joined an east-bound caravan. The
Drasnian moors  beyond Boktor were desolate.  The North Caravan Route wound
through low, rolling hills covered with sparse vegetation and scanty grass.
Although it was the  middle of spring, there seemed to be a sere quality to
the moors, as if  the seasons only lightly touched them; the wind, sweeping
down  from   the  polar  ice,  still  had  the   smell  of  winter  in  it.

Silk rode in silence,  his eyes on the ground, though whether from grief or
from  the aftereffects  of the ale  he had  drunk, Garion could  not guess.
Belgarath was also quiet, and the three of them rode with only the sound of
the  harness  bells  of  a  Drasnian merchant's  mules  for  companionship.

About noon, Silk shook  himself and looked around - his eyes finally alert,
though  still a  bit bloodshot.  "Did anybody  think to bring  something to
drink?" he asked.

"Didn't you get enough last night?" Belgarath replied.

"That  was for entertainment.  What I  need now is  something therapeutic."

"Water?" Garion suggested.

"I'm thirsty, Garion, not dirty."

"Here." Belgarath  handed the  suffering man a wineskin.  "But don't overdo
it."

"Trust me,"  Silk said, taking a long drink. He  shuddered and made a face.
"Where  did you  buy this?"  he inquired.  "It tastes like  somebody's been
boiling old shoes in it."

"You don't have to drink it."

"I'm afraid  I do." Silk took another  drink, then restoppered the wineskin
and handed  it back. He looked sourly around  at the moors. "Hasn't changed
much," he  observed. "Drasnia has very little  to reoommend it, I'm afraid.
It's  either too  wet or  too dry."  He shivered  in the chilly  wind. "Are
either of  you aware  of the fact  that there's nothing between  us and the
pole   to   break   the   wind   but   an   occasional   stray   reindeer?"

Garion began  to relax. Silk's  sallies and comments grew  broader and more
outrageous  as they  rode through  the afternoon.  By the time  the caravan
stopped  for  the  night,  he seemed  to  be  almost  his  old self  again.





Chapter Twenty-one

THE CARAVAN WOUND its  slow way through the dreary moors of eastern Drasnia
with the sound of  mule bells trailing mournfully behind it. Sparse patches
of  heath, which  had but lately  begun to  bloom with tiny,  pink flowers,
dotted the  low, rolling  hills. The sky  had turned cloudy,  and the wind,
seemingly perpetual, blew steadily out of the north.

Garion found  his mood  growing as sad  and bleak as the  moors around him.
There was one inescapable  fact which he no longer could hide from himself.
Each  mile, each  step, brought him  closer to  Mallorea and closer  to his
meeting  with  Torak.  Even  the  whispered  song  of  the  Orb,  murmuring
continually in his ears  from the pommel of the great sword strapped to his
back, could  not reassure him. Torak was a  God - invincible, immortal; and
Garion.  not  even  yet  full-grown,  was quite  deliberately  trekking  to
Mallorea to  seek him out and  to fight him to the  death. Death was a word
Garion tried  very hard not to think about. It  had been a possibility once
or twice during their  long pursuit of Zedar and the Orb; but now it seemed
a  certainty. He  would meet  Torak alone.  Mandorallen or Barak  or Hettar
could  not come  to  his aid  with their  superior skill  at swordsmanship;
Belgarath or Aunt Pol  could not intercede for him with sorcery; Silk would
not be able to  devise some clever ruse to allow him to escape. Titanic and
enraged, the Dark God would rush upon him, eager for blood. Garion began to
fear sleep, for sleep  brought nightmares which would not go away and which
haunted his days, making each worse than the last.

He was  afraid. The  fear grew worse  with each passing day  until the sour
taste of it was  always in his mouth. More than anything, he wanted to run,
but he knew that he could not. Indeed, he did not even know any place where
he could run. There was no place in all the world for him to hide. The Gods
themselves would  seek him  out if he  tried and sternly drive  him to that
awful meeting  which had  been fated to  take place since  the beginning of
time. And  so it  was that, sick with  fear, Garion rode to  meet his fate.

Belgarath, who was not  always asleep when he seemed to doze in his saddle,
watched, shrewdly  waiting until Garion's fear  had reached its peak before
he spoke. Then, one  cloudy morning when the lead-gray sky was as dreary as
the moors around them, he pulled his horse in beside Garion's. "Do you want
to talk about it?" he asked calmly.

"What's the point, Grandfather?"

"It might help."

"Nothing's going to help. He's going to kill me."

"If I thought it was that inevitable, I wouldn't have let you start on this
journey."

"How can I possibly fight with a God?"

"Bravely,"  was the  unhelpful  reply. "You've  been brave  at  some pretty
inappropriate times  in the past.  I don't imagine you've  changed all that
much."

"I'm  so afraid,  Grandfather," Garion  confessed, his voice  anguished. "I
think I  know how  Mandorallen felt now.  The fear's so awful  that I can't
live with it."

"You're stronger  than you think you are. You can live  with it if you have
to."

Garion brooded  about that. It didn't seem to  help much. "What's he like?"
he asked, suddenly filled with a morbid curiosity.

"Who?"

"Torak."

"Arrogant. I never cared much for him."

"Is he like Ctuchik was - or Asharak?"

"No. They  tried to be like  him. They didn't succeed,  of course, but they
tried. If  it's any help to you, Torak's probably as  much afraid of you as
you are of him.  He knows who you are. When you meet him, he isn't going to
see a Sendarian scullery boy named Garion; he's going to see Belgarion, the
Rivan King,  and he's  going to see  Riva's sword thirsting  for his blood.
He's also  going to see the  Orb of Aldur. And  that will probably frighten
him more than anything."

"When was  the first time you met him?" Garion  suddenly wanted the old man
to talk  - to  tell stories as he  had so long ago.  Stories somehow always
helped. He  could lose himself in a story, and for  a little while it might
make things bearable.

Belgarath scratched  at his short,  white beard. "Let's see,"  he mused. "I
think the  first time was in  the Vale - it  was a very long  time ago. The
others had gathered there - Belzedar, Beldin, all the rest - and each of us
was involved  in his own studies.  Our Master had withdrawn  into his tower
with the  Orb, and sometimes months  would pass during which  we didn't see
him.

"Then one day a  stranger came to us. He seemed to be about the same height
as I, but he  walked as if he were a thousand feet tall. His hair was black
and his  skin was  very pale, and  he had, as  I remember, greenish-colored
eyes. His  face was  beautiful to the  point of being pretty,  and his hair
looked as if he  spent a lot of time combing it. He appeared to be the kind
of person who always has a mirror in his pocket."

"Did he say anything?" Garion asked.

"Oh, yes,"  Belgarath replied. "He came  up to us and  said, 'I would speak
with my brother, thy Master,' and I definitely didn't care for his tone. He
spoke as  if we were servants  - it's a failing  he's always had. Still, my
Master  had -  after a great  deal of trouble  - taught  me at least  a few
manners. 'I shall tell  my Master you have come,' I told him as politely as
I could manage.

"'That is not needful, Belgarath,' he told me in that irritatingly superior
tone of his. 'My brother knows I am here.' "

"How did he know your name, Grandfather?"

Belgarath shrugged.  "I never found that  out. I assume that  my Master had
communicated with  him -  and the other Gods  - from time to  time and told
them about  us. At any rate, I led this  over-pretty visitor to my Master's
tower. I didn't bother to speak to him along the way. When we got there, he
looked  me straight  in  the face  and said,  'A  bit of  advice  for thee,
Belgarath,  by  way of  thanks  for thy  service.  Seek not  to rise  above
thyself. It is not thy place to approve or disapprove of me. For thy sake I
hope that when next  we meet thou wilt remember this and behave in a manner
more seemly.'"

" 'Thank  you for the advice,'  I told him-a bit  tartly, I'll admit. 'Will
you require anything else?'

"'Thou art  pert, Belgarath,' he said to me. 'Perhaps  one day I shall give
myself leisure to instruct  thee in proper behavior.' And then he went into
the tower. As you  can see, Torak and I got off on  the wrong foot right at
the very beginning. I  didn't care for his attitude, and he didn't care for
mine."

"What  happened  then?" Garion's  curiosity  had  begun to  quiet the  fear
somewhat.

"You know the story,"  Belgarath replied. "Torak went up into the tower and
spoke  with Aldur.  One thing led  to another  and finally Torak  struck my
Master and  stole the Orb." The old man's face was  bleak. "The next time I
saw  him, he  wasn't nearly so  pretty," he  continued with a  certain grim
satisfaction.  "That was  after the Orb  had burned  him and he'd  taken to
wearing a steel mask to hide the ruins of his face."

Silk had  drawn closer and was  riding with them, fascinated  by the story.
"What did  you all do then?  After Torak stole the  Orb, I mean?" he asked.

"Our  Master sent  us to warn  the other  Gods," Belgarath replied.  "I was
supposed to find Belar  - he was in the north someplace, carousing with his
Alorns. Belar  was a young God at that time,  and he enjoyed the diversions
of the young. Alorn  girls used to dream about being visited by him, and he
tried to  make as many dreams  come true as he possibly  could - or so I've
been told."

"I've never heard that about him." Silk seemed startled.

"Perhaps it's only gossip," Belgarath admitted.

"Did you find him?" Garion asked.

"It took me quite a while. The shape of the land was different then. What's
now Algaria  stretched all  the way to  the east - thousands  of leagues of
open grassland. At first I took the shape of an eagle, but that didn't work
out too well."

"It seems quite suitable," Silk observed.

"Heights make me giddy," the old man replied, "and my eyes were continually
getting distracted by things on the ground. I kept having this overpowering
urge to  swoop down and kill  things. The character of  the forms we assume
begins to  dominate our thinking after  a while, and although  the eagle is
quite splendid-looking, he's really a very stupid bird. Finally I gave that
idea up and chose  the form of the wolf instead. It worked out much better.
About  the only  distraction  I encountered  was a  young she-wolf  who was
feeling frolicsome."  There was  a slight tightening  about his eyes  as he
said it, and his voice had a peculiar catch in it.

"Belgarathl" Silk actually sounded shocked.

"Don't be so quick  to jump to conclusions, Silk. I considered the morality
of the  situation. I realized that being a father  is probably all well and
good, but  that a  litter of puppies  might prove embarrassing  later on. I
resisted her  advances, even though  she persisted in following  me all the
way to  the north where the  Bear-God dwelt with his  Alorns." He broke off
and looked  out at the  gray-green moors, his face  unreadable. Garion knew
that there  was something  the old man wasn't  saying -something important.

"Anyway," Belgarath continued, "Belar accompanied us back to the Vale where
the  other Gods  had gathered,  and they  held a  council and  decided that
they'd have to make war on Torak and his Angaraks. That was the start of it
all. The world has never been the same since."

"What  happened  to  the  wolf?"  Garion  asked,  trying to  pin  down  his
grandfather's peculiar evasion.

"She stayed  with me," Belgarath replied calmly. "She  used to sit for days
on end  in my tower  watching me. She had  a curious turn of  mind, and her
comments were frequently a trifle disconcerting."

"Comments?" Silk asked. "She could talk?"

"In  the manner  of the wolf,  you understand.  I'd learned how  they speak
during our  journey together. It's really a  rather concise and often quite
beautiful language.  Wolves can  be eloquent -  even poetic -  once you get
used to having them speak to you without words."

"How long did she stay with you?" Garion asked.

"Quite a long time,"  Belgarath replied. "I remember that I asked her about
that once.  She answered with another question.  It was an irritating habit
of hers. She just said, 'What is time to a wolf?' I made a few calculations
and found out that she'd been with me for just over a thousand years. I was
a bit amazed by  that, but she seemed indifferent to the fact. 'Wolves live
as long as they  choose to live,' was all she said. 'Then  one day I had to
change my form for  some reason or other - I forget exactly why. She saw me
do it, and that  was the end of any peace for me. She just said, 'So that's
how you  do it,' and promptly changed herself into  a snowy owl. She seemed
to take  a great delight in  startling me, and I  never knew what shape I'd
see when  I turned around. She was fondest of the  owl, though. A few years
after that  she left me. I was rather surprised to  find that I missed her.
We'd been  together for a very  long time." He broke  off and once again he
looked away.

"Did you ever see her again?" Garion wanted to know.

Belgarath nodded. "She saw to that - though I didn't know it at the time. I
was running an errand  for my Master somewhere to the north of the Vale and
I came  across a  small, neatly thatched cottage  in a grove of  trees by a
small  river. A woman  named Poledra lived  in the  cottage - a  woman with
tawny  hair and  curiously golden  eyes. We  grew to  know each  other, and
eventually  we were married.  She was  Polgara's mother -  and Beldaran's."

"You  were  saying that  you  met  the wolf  again,"  Garion reminded  him.

"You don't listen too  well, Garion," the old man said, looking directly at
his grandson. There  was a deep and ancient injury in his  eyes - a hurt so
great that Garion knew  it would be there for as long as the old man lived.

"You don't mean-?"

"It took me a while to accept it myself, actually. Poledra was very patient
and very  determined. When  she found out  that I couldn't accept  her as a
mate in  the form  of a wolf, she  simply found a different  shape. She got
what she wanted in the end." He sighed.

"Aunt Pol's mother was a wolf?" Garion was stunned.

"No, Garion,"  Belgarath replied calmly, "she  was a woman -  a very lovely
woman. The change of shape is absolute."

"But - but she started out as a wolf."

"So?"

"But " The whole notion was somehow shocking.

"Don't let  your prejudices run away with  you," Belgarath told him. Garion
struggled with the idea.  It seemed monstrous somehow. "I'm sorry," he said
finally. "It's unnatural, no matter what you say."

"Garion,"  the  old  man  reminded him  with  a  pained  look, "just  about
everything we  do is unnatural. Moving rocks with  your mind isn't the most
natural  thing   in  the   world,  if  you   stop  and  think   about  it."

"But this is different," Garion protested. "Grandfather, you married a wolf
- and the wolf had children. How could you do that?"

Belgarath sighed and shook  his head. "You're a very stubborn boy, Garion,"
he observed.  "It seems that you're never  going to understand until you've
been through the experience.  Let's go over behind that hill, and I'll show
you how it's done.  There's no point in upsetting the rest of the caravan."

"Mind if I come along?" Silk asked, his nose twitching with curiosity.

"Might  not be  a bad idea,"  Belgarath agreed.  "You can hold  the horses.
Horses tend to panic in the presence of wolves."

They  rode away  from the caravan  track under  the leaden sky  and circled
around  behind  a  low, heath-covered  hill.  "This  should do,"  Belgarath
decided,  reining in  and dismounting  in a  shallow swale just  behind the
hill.  The   swale  was   covered  with  new  grass,   green  with  spring.

"The  whole trick  is  to create  the image  of the  animal in  your mind,"
Belgarath explained,  "down to the  last detail. Then you  direct your will
inward - upon yourself - and then change, fitting yourself into the image."

Garion frowned, not understanding.

"It's going  to take too long if I have to  explain it in words," Belgarath
said.  "Here -  watch -  and watch with  your mind  as well as  your eyes."

Unbidden, the  shape of the great gray wolf he  had seen on occasion before
came into  Garion's mind. He could  clearly see the gray  - shot muzzle and
the silver ruff: Then  he felt the surge and heard the hollow roaring sound
in his  mind. For an instant, the image of  the wolf curiously mingled with
an image  of Belgarath himself -  as if the two  were trying to both occupy
the  same  space. Then  Belgarath  was  gone and  only  the wolf  remained.

Silk  whistled, then  took a  firmer grip  on the  reins of  their startled
horses.

Belgarath  changed  back again  to  an  ordinary -  looking  old  man in  a
rust-brown  tunic and  gray, hooded  cloak. "Do  you understand?"  he asked
Garion.

"I think so," Garion replied, a bit dubiously.

"Try it.  I'll lead you through  it one step at  a time." Garion started to
put a wolf together in his mind.

"Don't forget  the toenails," Belgarath  told him. "They may  not look like
much, but they're very important."

Garion put the toenails in. "Tail's too short."

Garion fixed that.

"That's about right. Now fit yourself into it."

Garion put his will to it. "Change," he said.

It  seemed  almost  as  if his  body  had  grown  somehow fluid,  shifting,
altering, flowing into the  image of the wolf that he had in his mind. When
the surge  was gone, he sat on his haunches  panting. He felt very strange.

"Stand up  and let's have a  look at you," Belgarath  told him. Garion rose
and   stood  on  all   four  paws.   His  tail  felt   extremely  peculiar.

"You made the hind legs a bit too long," Belgarath noted critically. Garion
started to  object that  it was the first  time he'd ever done  it, but his
voice came out in a peculiar series of whines and yelps.

"Stop  that," Belgarath  growled. "You  sound like  a puppy.  Change back."

Garion did that.

"Where do your clothes go?" Silk asked curiously.

"They're with  us," Belgarath replied,  "but at the same  time they're not.
It's kind  of hard to explain,  actually. Beldin tried to  work out exactly
where the  clothes were once. He seems to think he's  got the answer, but I
never understood  the whole  theory. Beldin's quite a  bit more intelligent
than I  am, and his explanations  are sometimes a bit  exotic. At any rate,
when we  return to  our original shape,  our clothing is always  just as it
was."

"Even Garion's sword?" Silk asked. "And the Orb?"

The old man nodded.

"Isn't  it  sort  of  dangerous  having  it  floating around  out  there  -
unattached, so to speak?"

"It isn't  really unattached. It's still there - but  at the same time it's
not."

"I'll take your word for it," Silk conceded dubiously.

"Try it again, Garion," Belgarath suggested.

Garion switched back and  forth several times until his wolfshape satisfied
his grandfather.

"Stay with  the horses," the old man told Silk. "We'll  be back in a little
bit." He flickered and shimmered into the great gray wolf. "Let's run for a
bit," he said to  Garion. The meaning of what he said was conveyed directly
from his mind to Garion's, aided only slightly by expressions and positions
of  his head  and  ears and  a few  brief  barking sounds.  Garion suddenly
understood  why  the bond  of  the  pack was  so  strong  in wolves.  Quite
literally, they  inhabited each others' minds. What  one saw, they all saw;
and what one felt, they all felt.

"Where do we run  to?" Garion asked, not really surprised at how easily the
speech of wolves came to him.

"No place  in particular. I just need to stretch out  a few kinks." And the
gray wolf bounded away with astonishing speed.

The tail  was a definite problem  at first. Garion kept  forgetting that it
was there, and its swishing back and forth kept jerking him off balance. By
the time  he got the hang  of it, the old wolf was far  out ahead of him on
the  gray-green  moors.  After  a  while,  however,  Garion  found  himself
literally flying  across the ground. His paws  scarcely seemed to touch the
earth as he bunched and stretched his body in great bounds. He marvelled at
the  economy of  the running  gait of the  wolf. He  ran not with  his legs
alone, but with his  entire body. He became quite certain that, if need be,
he could run for days without tiring.

The rolling  moors were different somehow. What  had seemed as desolate and
empty as  the dead sky overhead was suddenly  teeming with life. There were
mice and burrowing squirrels; in scrubby brown thickets, rabbits, petrified
with fright, watched him  as he loped by with his toenails digging into the
springy turf.  Silently he exulted in  the strength and freedom  of his new
body. He  was the  lord of the  plain, and all  creatures gave  way to him.

And  then he  was  not alone.  Another wolf  ran beside  him -  a strangely
insubstantial-looking wolf  that seemed to have  a bluish, flickering light
playing about her.

"And  how  far will  you  run?"  she asked  him  in the  manner of  wolves.

"We can stop if  you'd like," Garion replied politely, dropping back into a
lope and then a trot.

"It's easier  to talk  if one isn't  running," she agreed.  She stopped and
dropped to her haunches.

Garion  also  stopped.  "You're  Poledra, aren't  you?"  He  asked it  very
directly, not yet accustomed to the subtleties of the language of wolves.

"Wolves have no need  of names," she sniffed. "He used to worry about that,
too."

It  was not  exactly like  the voice that  had been  in his mind  since his
childhood.  He didn't  actually  hear her,  but instead  he seemed  to know
exactly  what   she  wanted  to  say   to  him.  "Grandfather,  you  mean?"

"Who else?  Men seem  to have a  need to classify  things and  put names on
them. I think they overlook some very important things that way."

"How is it that you're here? Aren't you - well -?"

"Dead, you mean? Don't  be afraid of the word. It's only a word, after all.
I suppose  I am, though. It  doesn't really feel all  that much different."

"Doesn't somebody have to  do something to bring you back?" he asked. "Like
what  Aunt  Pol did  that  time  when we  were  fighting with  Grul in  the
mountains of Ulgo?"

"It's not entirely necessary.  I can be summoned that way, but I can manage
it  myself if  I have to."  She looked  at him quizzically.  "You're really
confused by all this, aren't you?"

"All of what?"

"Everything. Who you are; who we are; what you have to do."

"A little," he admitted.

"Let me see if  I can explain it. Take him for instance. I never really saw
him as  a man, you know.  There's something decidedly wolfish  about him. I
always rather  thought that his being born in  man-shape had been a mistake
of some kind. Maybe  it was because of what he had to do. The shape doesn't
really matter, though."

"It doesn't?"

"Did you  really think it did?"  She almost seemed to  laugh. "Here. Let me
show you. Let's change." She shimmered into air and was standing before him
then in  the form  of a tawny-haired  woman with golden eyes.  Her gown was
very plain and brown.

Garion shrugged himself back into his natural form.

"Am I really any  different, Belgarion?" she asked him. "Am I not who I am,
whether as wolf or owl or woman?"

And then  he understood. "May I call you Grandmother?"  he asked her, a bit
embarrassed.

"If it makes you happy," she replied. "It's a bit inaccurate, though."

"I know," he said, "but I feel a little more comfortable with it."

"Have you finally accepted who you are?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?"

"But you're  afraid of it and  what you have to do,  is that it?" He nodded
mutely.

"You're not going to be alone, you know."

He looked at her sharply. "I thought the Codex said-"

"The Codex  doesn't really  say everything that's involved,"  she told him.
"Your  meeting with  Torak  will be  the coming  together of  two enormous,
opposing  forces. The  two of  you are  really just the  representatives of
those forces.  There'll be so much power involved  in your meeting that you
and  Torak   will  be  almost  incidental   to  what's  really  happening."

"Why couldn't somebody else do it then?" he asked quickly. "Somebody better
suited to it?"

"I said  almost incidental," she said  firmly. "It has to  be you, and it's
always  been Torak.  You  are the  channels through  which the  forces will
collide. When  it happens, I think  you'll be surprised at  how easy it all
is."

"Am I going to win?"

"I don't  know. The  universe itself doesn't  know. That's why  you have to
meet  him. If  we  knew how  it would  turn  out, the  meeting  wouldn't be
necessary." She looked around. "Belgarath's coming back. I'll have to leave
you now."

"Why-"

"My presence pains him - more than you could ever know."

"Because-?" He broke off, not knowing how to say it.

"We  were closer than  others and we  were together  for a very  long time.
Sometimes  I wish  that  he could  understand that  we haven't  really been
separated, but perhaps it's too early."

"It's been three thousand years, Grandmother."

"What is  time to a wolf?" she asked cryptically.  "The mating of wolves is
permanent, and  the grief  caused by separation is  also permanent. Perhaps
someday-" Her voice trailed off wistfully, and then she sighed. "As soon as
I leave, change back  again. Belgarath will want you to hunt with him. It's
sort of  a formality. You'll understand when you're back  in the shape of a
wolf."

Garion nodded  and began  to form the image  of the wolf in  his mind. "One
other thing, Belgarion."

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"I do love you, you know."

"I love you too, Grandmother."

And then she was  gone. Garion sighed and changed himself back into a wolf.
And  then he  went  out from  that place  to  join Belgarath  in  the hunt.







                                 Part Four

                              THE RIVAN QUEEN







                                  [Image]





Chapter Twenty-two

THE PRINCESS  CE'NEDRA Was in a thoughtful, even  pensive mood. Much as she
had enjoyed  the turmoil her  periodic outbursts of temper  had caused, she
rather regretfully  concluded that it  was probably time to  put them aside
and make  peace with Garion. They were going to  be married, after all, and
there  was  no  real  point  in  upsetting  him any  more  than  absolutely
necessary. Her  tantrums had  established the fact that,  although he might
outrank her, she would not enter the marriage as his inferior, and that was
really  all she  had wanted  anyway. On  the whole,  the prospect  of being
married to  Garion was not nearly  as unpleasant as she  pretended. She did
love  him after  all, and now  that he  understood exactly how  things were
going  to   stand  between   them,  everything  was  likely   to  be  quite
satisfactory. She  decided to  find him that  very day and  make peace with
him.

The largest part of  her attention that spring morning had been taken up by
a book  on protocol and a  chart she was carefully  drawing up. As Imperial
Princess of  Tolnedra and Queen  of Riva, she would,  of course, absolutely
outrank  every grand  duchess of every  house in  the Empire. She  was also
fairly sure  that she outranked Queen  Islena of Cherek and  Queen Silar of
Algaria. Mayaserana's  status as co-ruler of  Arendia raised some problems,
however.  It was  entirely possible  that she  and Mayaserana  were equals.
Ce'Nedra  made a  note on a  scrap of  parchment reminding herself  to have
Ambassador Valgon direct an  inquiry to the chief of protocol in Tol Honeth
concerning  the matter.  She felt a  nice little  glow as she  surveyed the
chart. With  the exception  of Lady Polgara  and the motherly  little Queen
Layla of  Sendaria, to whom everyone deferred because  she was such a dear,
Ce'Nedra concluded  that she would in fact outrank  or at least equal every
noble lady in the West.

Suddenly there  was a shattering  thunderclap so violent that  it shook the
very walls of the Citadel. Startled, Ce'Nedra glanced at the window. It was
a bright, sunny morning.  How could there be thunder? Another rending crash
ripped  the  silence, and  there  was  a frightened  babble  in the  halls.
Impatiently, the  princess picked up a  small silver bell and  rang for her
maid.

"Go  see what's  happening," she  instructed the  girl and returned  to her
study of  the chart she had  drawn. But there was  another thunderous crash
and  even more  shouting  and confusion  in  the corridor  outside. It  was
impossible!  How  could  she  concentrate with  all  that  noise going  on?
Irritably she rose and went to the door.

People were  running - actually fleeing. Just down  the hall Queen Layla of
Sendaria bolted from the door of Lady Polgara's private apartment, her eyes
wide with terror and her crown very nearly falling off.

"What is the matter,  your majesty?" Ce'Nedra demanded of the little queen.

"It's  Polgara!" Queen  Layla  gasped, stumbling  in her  haste  to escape.
"She's destroying everything in sight!"

"Lady Polgara?"

Another deafening  crash sent  the little queen  reeling, and she  clung to
Ce'Nedra in terror. "Please, Ce'Nedra. Find out what's wrong. Make her stop
before she shakes down the entire fortress."

"Me?"

"She'll listen to you. She loves you. Make her stop."

Without pausing  to consider the possible  danger, Ce'Nedra went quickly to
Lady Polgara's door and glanced inside. The apartment was a total shambles.
Furniture was  overturned; wall hangings had  been ripped down; the windows
were shattered  and the air was  full of smoke. Ce'Nedra  had thrown enough
tantrums  in her  life  to appreciate  artistry when  she  saw it,  but the
disaster inside Polgara's apartment was so absolute that it went beyond art
into  the  realms  of  natural  catastrophe. Lady  Polgara  herself  stood,
wild-eyed and  dishevelled in the center  of the room, cursing incoherently
in a  dozen languages  at once. In  one hand she  held a  crumpled sheet of
parchment; her other hand  was raised like a claw before her, half clenched
about  an incandescent  mass  of blazing  energy  that she  seemed to  have
summoned out  of air  itself and which she  now fed with her  own fury. The
princess stood in awe as Polgara began a fresh tirade. The dreadful cursing
began  in a low  contralto and rose  in an  awful crescendo into  the upper
registers and  beyond. As  she reached the  limits of her  voice, she began
slashing the air with  the blazing mass in her hand, punctuating each curse
with a crackling burst  of raw energy that sizzled from between her fingers
like a  bolt of  lightning to shatter  whatever her eyes fell  upon. With a
series of vile oaths,  she detonated six teacups in a row into shards, then
quite methodically she went  back down the line, exploding the saucers upon
which  they had  sat. Almost as  an afterthought,  she blew the  table into
splinters.

Ce'Nedra heard a strangled  gasp directly behind her. King Anheg, the blood
drained from  his face, looked once through the  door, then turned and ran.

"Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra remonstrated  to the sorceress, trying not so much
to reason with her as to minimize the destruction.

Polgara  shattered four  priceless vases  standing on the  mantelpiece with
four precisely  separate explosions. Outside the  window, the bright spring
morning vanished  as if the  sun had suddenly been  extinguished, and there
was a  sullen rumble of thunder that  Ce'Nedra prayed devoutly was natural.

"Whatever is  the matter?" the  princess asked, hoping to  draw the enraged
sorceress into explanation rather  than more curses. It was the curses that
had  to  be headed  off.  Polgara  seemed to  have  a  deep-seated need  to
emphasize her oaths with explosions.

Polgara, however, did not  reply. Instead she merely threw the parchment at
Ce'Nedra,  turned,  and  blew  a  marble  statue into  fine  white  gravel.
Wild-eyed,  she wheeled  about, looking  for something  else to  break, but
there was  very little  left in the  smoking room that she  had not already
reduced to rubble.

"No!" Ce'Nedra  cried out  sharply as the  raging woman's eyes  fell on the
exquisite crystal wren Garion had given her. The princess knew that Polgara
valued the glass bird more than anything else she possessed, and she leaped
forward to protect the delicate piece.

"Get it," Polgara snarled  at her from between clenched teeth. "Take it out
of my  sight." Her  eyes burned with  a terrible need  to destroy something
else. She spun and hurled the incandescent ball of fire she had wielded out
through the shattered window.  The explosion, when it burst in the suddenly
murky  air outside,  was ghastly.  With her  fists clenched tightly  at her
sides, she raised her distorted face and began to curse again. From roiling
black clouds that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, shattering bolts of
lightning  began to  rain  down on  the  island. No  longer satisfied  with
localized destruction,  Polgara expanded her rage to  rake the Isle and the
Sea of the Winds with sizzling fire and ear-splitting thunder. Then, with a
dreadful  intensity,  she  raised  one fist  and  suddenly  opened it.  The
downpour  of  rain  she  called  was  beyond belief.  Her  glittering  eyes
narrowed,  and she  raised  her other  fist. The  rain instantly  turned to
hail-great, jagged  chunks of  ice that crashed and  splintered against the
rocks   to  fill   the  air   with  flying   fragments  and   thick  steam.

Ce'Nedra caught up the wren, stooped to grab the rumpled piece of parchment
from the floor, and then she fled.

King Anheg poked his  frightened face from around a corner. "Can't you stop
her?" he demanded in a shaking voice.

"Nothing can stop her, your Majesty."

"Anheg!  Get in  here!"  Polgara's voice  rang  above the  thunder and  the
crashing deluge of hail that shook the Citadel.

"Oh, Belar," King Anheg muttered devoutly, casting his eyes skyward even as
he hurried toward Polgara's door.

"Get word  to Val Alorn immediately!" she  commanded him. "My father, Silk,
and Garion  slipped out of the  Citadel last night. Get  your fleet out and
bring them back! I  don't care if you have to take the world apart stone by
stone. Find them and bring them back!"

"Polgara, I-" The King of Cherek faltered.

"Don't stand there gaping like an idiot! Move!"

Carefully,  almost with a  studied calm,  the Princess Ce'Nedra  handed the
glass wren  to her  frightened maid. "Put  this someplace safe,"  she said.
Then she  turned and went back  to the center of  the storm. "What was that
you just said?" she asked Polgara in a level voice.

"My idiot  father, Garion, and that disgusting  thief decided last night to
go  off on  their  own," Polgara  replied in  an icy  voice made  even more
terrible by the superhuman control that held it in.

"They did what?" Ce'Nedra asked flatly.

"They left. They sneaked away during the night."

"Then you must go after them."

"I can't,  Ce'Nedra." Polgara spoke as if  explaining something to a child.
"Someone has  to stay  here. There are  too many things here  that could go
wrong.  He knows  that.  He did  it  deliberately. He's  trapped me  here."

"Garion?"

"No, you silly girl! My father!" And Polgara began cursing again, each oath
punctuated with a crash of thunder.

Ce'Nedra, however, scarcely heard  her. She looked around. There was really
nothing left  to break in here. "You'll excuse me,  I hope," she said. Then
she turned,  went back to her own rooms,  and began breaking everything she
could lay  her hands on, screeching  all the while like  a Camaar fishwife.

Their separate  rages lasted  for several hours, and  they rather carefully
avoided each  other during this period. Some  emotions needed to be shared,
but insane  fury was  not one of  those. Eventually, Ce'Nedra  felt she had
exhausted the possibilities of  her extended outburst, and she settled into
the icy calm of one who has been mortally insulted. No matter what face his
illiterate note  put on  the matter, it  would be at  the very  most a week
before the entire world  knew that Garion had jilted her. The flight of her
reluctant  bridegroom  would become  a  universal joke.  It was  absolutely
intolerable!

She  would meet  the world, however,  with a  lifted chin and  an imperious
gaze. However  she might weep and  storm and rage in  private, the face she
presented  to the world  would betray no  hint of  how deeply she  had been
injured.  All that  was left  for her  was her  pride, and she  would never
abandon that.

The  Lady  Polgara, however,  seemed  to  feel no  need  for such  imperial
reserve. Once her initial  fury had subsided to the degree that she allowed
her private thunderstorm to  pass, a few hardy souls assumed that the worst
of it was over.  The Earl of Trellheim went to her in an attempt to mollify
her.  He left  her  apartment moments  later at  a  run with  her crackling
vituperation sizzling in the  air about his ears. Barak was pale and shaken
when he  reported back to the others. "Don't go near  her," he advised in a
frightened voice.  "Do whatever  she says as  quickly as you  can, and stay
absolutely out of her sight."

"Isn't she calming down at all?" King Rhodar asked.

"She's  finished breaking  the  furniture," Barak  replied. "I  think she's
getting ready to start on people."

Thereafter,  each  time Polgara  emerged  from her  apartment, the  warning
spread  instantly,  and  the  halls  of Iron-grip's  Citadel  emptied.  Her
commands, delivered usually by her maid, were all variations of the initial
orders she  had given  King Anheg. They  were to find the  vagrant trio and
bring them back to face her.

In the  days that followed,  Princess Ce'Nedra's first rage  settled into a
sort  of peevishness  that made  people avoid  her almost  as much  as they
avoided  Polgara  - all  but  gentle  Adara, who  endured  the tiny  girl's
outbursts with  a calm patience. The  two of them spent  most of their time
sitting in  the garden adjoining the  royal apartments where Ce'Nedra could
give   vent   to   her   emotions   without  fear   of   being   overheard.

It  was five  days after  Garion and  the others  had left  before Ce'Nedra
discovered the full implications of their departure.

The day  was warm - the  spring came eventually even  to a bleak place like
Riva -  and the small bit  of lawn in the  center of the garden  was a lush
green. Pink,  blue, and flaming red flowers nodded  in their beds as bright
yellow bees industriously carried kisses from blossom to blossom. Ce'Nedra,
however, did  not want to think about kisses.  Dressed in her favorite pale
green Dryad  tunic, she bit rather savagely at  an unoffending lock of hair
and  spoke to  the patient Adara  at length  about the inconstancy  of men.

It was  about midafternoon when  Queen Layla of Sendaria  found them there.
"Oh, there you are," the plump little queen bubbled at them. As always, her
crown  was  a  little   awry.  "We've  been  looking  all  over  for  you."

"Why?" was Ce'Nedra's somewhat ungracious reply.

Queen Layla stopped and  looked critically at the princess. "My," she said,
"aren't we cross today?  Just what is your problem, Ce'Nedra? You've barely
been civil for days now."

Ce'Nedra caught  Adara's warning look to the  queen, and that irritated her
all the more. Her response was chilly. "I'm finding the experience of being
jilted   to  be   just   a  bit   annoying,  your   Highness,"   she  said.

Queen Layla's sunny face hardened. "Would you excuse us, Adara?" she asked.

"Of course, your Highness," Adara replied, rising quickly. "I'll be inside,
Ce'Nedra,"  she said  and went  gracefully out  of the garden.  Queen Layla
waited until the girl  was out of earshot, then sat down on a marble bench.
"Come here, Ce'Nedra," she said firmly.

The princess  looked at  the motherly little  woman, a bit  startled by the
iron  in   her  voice.   Obediently  she  went   to  the  bench   and  sat.

"You really  should stop interpreting everything  that happens in the world
as a personal insult,  you know," Layla told her. "That's a very unbecoming
habit. What Garion, Belgarath, and Kheldar did has absolutely nothing to do
with you."  She looked  sternly at Ce'Nedra.  "Do you know  anything at all
about the Prophecy?"

"I've heard about it," Ce'Nedra sulked. "Tolnedrans don't really believe in
that sort of thing."

"Perhaps  that's the  problem,"  Layla said.  "I  want you  to listen  very
carefully,  Ce'Nedra. You may  not believe,  but you will  understand." The
queen  thought for  a moment.  "The Prophecy  clearly states that  when the
Rivan King returns, Torak will awaken."

"Torak? That's nonsense. Torak's dead."

"Don't interrupt,  dear," Layla told her. "You  travelled with them for all
that time  and you still don't  understand? For a little  girl who seems so
bright, you're remarkably dense."

Ce'Nedra flushed at that.

"Torak is a God, Ce'Nedra," Layla continued. "He's asleep, not dead. He did
not die at  Vo Mimbre, much as some people might like  to think he did. The
instant that Garion touched  the Orb, Torak began to stir. Haven't you ever
wondered  why Polgara  insisted  that Errand  carry the  Orb back  from Rak
Cthol?  Garion   could  have   carried  it  just  as   easily,  you  know."

Ce'Nedra hadn't thought of that.

"But if Garion had touched it - still on Angarak soil and without his sword
- Torak might very  well have jumped up and gone after him immediately, and
Garion would have been killed."

"Killed?" Ce'Nedra gasped.

"Of course,  dear. That's  what this is  all about. The  Prophecy says that
Torak and  the Rivan King will  eventually meet, and that  in their meeting
shall be decided the fate of mankind."

"Garion?" Ce'Nedra exclaimed, stunned  and disbelieving. "Surely you're not
serious?"

"I've never been more  serious in my life, child. Garion has to fight Torak
- to  the death - to  decide the fate of the  world. Now do you understand?
That's why Belgarath and  Kheldar and Garion left Riva so suddenly. They're
on  their way to  Mallorea so that  Garion can  fight Torak. He  could have
taken an army with  him, but he knew that would only cause needless deaths.
That's why the three of them went alone. Now don't you think it's time that
you grew up just a little bit?"

Ce'Nedra was  greatly subdued after her  conversation with Queen Layla. For
perhaps the  first time in her life, she began  to think more about someone
else than  she did about herself. She  worried constantly about Garion, and
at night  she had dreadful  nightmares about the hideous  things that could
happen to him.

To make matters worse,  there seemed to be a persistent buzzing in her ears
that was  at times quite maddening. It was rather  like the sound of voices
coming from a  long way off - voices that verged just  on the edge of being
understandable, but  never quite were. The  buzzing sound, coupled with her
anxiety about  Garion, made  her moody and  frequently short-tempered. Even
Adara began to avoid her.

The  irritating sound  in her  ears continued  for several days  before she
discovered, quite  by accident, the significance of  it. The weather on the
Isle of the Winds was never really very good, and spring was a particularly
unpredictable time of year. A series of storms, following one after another
in dreary  progression, lashed  at the rocky  coast, and nasty  little rain
squalls  swept the  city  and the  island.  One somber,  rainy morning  the
princess sat  in her  chambers looking glumly  out the window  at the soggy
garden. The fire which  crackled on her hearth did little to warm her mood.
After a while she sighed and, for want of anything better to do, she sat at
her dressing table and began to brush her hair.

The  silver flicker  at her  throat distracted  her eye momentarily  as she
looked at herself in  the mirror. It was the medallion Garion had given her
just  after her  birthday. She  had by  now grown  accustomed to  its being
there,  though the fact  that she could  not take  it off still  caused her
periodic  fits of anger.  Without actually  thinking about it,  she stopped
brushing and touched the amulet with her fingertips.

"-but we  can't do  a thing until  the Arends and the  Tolnedrans are fully
mobilized." It  was the voice  of King Rhodar of  Drasnia. Ce'Nedra started
and turned quickly, wondering  why the portly monarch had entered her room.
As  soon as  she  removed her  fingers from  the  silver amulet,  the voice
stopped.  Ce'Nedra  looked around,  puzzled.  She frowned  and touched  the
amulet again. "No, no," another voice said, "you don't add the spices until
after it  starts to boil."  Ce'Nedra again removed her  fingertips from the
talisman at  her throat,  and that voice too  stopped abruptly. Fascinated,
she  touched  it  for the  third  time.  "You make  up  the  bed, and  I'll
straighten up. We'll have  to hurry. The Queen of Cherek might come back at
any minute."

Wonderingly, the princess touched  the amulet again and again, and her ears
ranged randomly through the Citadel.

"The fire's  too hot. This iron will scorch  anything it touches." Then she
heard a snatch of  whispered conversation. "What if somebody comes?" It was
a girl's voice.

"Nobody's  going  to come."  The  young  man's voice  which  replied had  a
peculiar wheedling quality. "We're  all safe and cozy here, and I really do
love you."

Ce'Nedra quickly  jerked her  fingers from the  amulet, blushing furiously.

At first  there was no direction  to it; but as  the princess experimented,
she gradually learned to  focus this peculiar phenomenon. After a couple of
hours  of intense  concentration,  she found  that she  could  skim rapidly
through all the talking that was going on in a given quarter of the Citadel
until  she found  a conversation  that interested  her. In the  process she
learned many  secrets, some very  interesting, and some not  very nice. She
knew that she should feel guilty about her surreptitious eavesdropping, but
for some reason she did not.

"Thy reasoning  is sound, your Majesty."  It was Mandorallen's voice. "King
Korodullin is  committed to the cause,  though it will take  some weeks for
his call to arms to gather the forces of Arendia. Our major concern must be
the position the Emperor  will take in the affair. Without the legions, our
situation is perilous."

"Ran Borune has no  choice in the matter," King Anheg declared. "He's bound
by the provisions of the Accords of Vo Mimbre."

Brand,  the Rivan  Warder,  cleared his  throat. "I  don't think  it's that
simple,  your Majesty,"  he said  quietly in  his deep voice.  "The Accords
state that  the Kingdoms of the West must respond to  a call from the Rivan
King, and Belgarion is not here to issue that call."

"We're acting in his behalf," King Cho-Hag asserted.

"The problem lies in convincing Ran Borune of that," Rhodar pointed out. "I
know the Tolnedrans. They'll have whole battalions of legal experts working
on the Accords. Unless  Belgarion himself meets Ran Borune face to face and
issues his command in  person, the Emperor will take the position that he's
not legally bound to  join us. The Rivan King is the only one who can issue
a call to war."

Ce'Nedra let her fingertips drop from the amulet at her throat. An idea was
beginning to  take shape in her mind. It was an  exciting idea, but she was
not  at all certain  that she could  bring it  off. Alorns, she  knew, were
stubborn and reluctant to  accept any new ideas. She quickly laid aside her
hairbrush  and went  to a small  chest standing  against the wall  near the
window. She opened the chest and began rummaging through it. After a moment
she found  the tightly rolled parchment she  had been seeking. She unrolled
it and read through  it quickly until she found the passage she wanted. She
read it  carefully several  times. It seemed  to say what she  wanted it to
say.

She considered  the idea  throughout the rest  of the day.  The possibility
that anyone  might succeed in catching up with  Garion and stopping him was
remote,  to say  the  very least.  Belgarath  and Prince  Kheldar were  too
skilled at  evasion to allow  themselves to be easily  caught. Chasing them
was simply  a waste of time.  Since Polgara was not  yet rational enough to
see things  in this light, it  fell to Ce'Nedra to  take immediate steps to
minimize Garion's danger once he had entered the lands of the Angaraks. All
she had to do now was convince the Alorn Kings that she was the logical one
to take those steps.

It  was still  raining the  next morning,  and she  rose early to  make her
preparations. She must, of  course, look positively regal. Her choice of an
emerald velvet  gown and  matching cape was  artful. She knew  that she was
stunning in  green, and  her circlet of  gold oak leaves was  enough like a
crown to  convey the  right suggestion. She  was glad she  had waited until
morning. Men  were easier to deal with in  the morning, she had discovered.
They would  fight her at first, and she wanted  the idea implanted in their
minds before they were fully awake. As she gave herself a last-minute check
in the tall mirror in her dressing room, she gathered her determination and
marshalled  all  her  arguments.   The  slightest  objection  must  be  met
instantly.  Carefully she  put herself  in an  imperial frame of  mind and,
taking the rolled parchment, she moved toward the door.

The council  chamber in which the Alorn Kings  usually gathered was a large
room high up in  one of the massive towers of the Citadel. There were heavy
beams on the ceiling, a deep maroon carpet on the floor, and a fireplace at
the far end big enough to stand in. Maroon drapes flanked the windows where
tatters of rain slashed  across the solid stones of the tower. The walls of
the chamber  were covered with maps, and the  large table was littered with
parchments and  ale cups.  King Anheg, in  his blue robe  and dented crown,
sprawled  in the nearest  chair, as  shaggy and brutish-looking  as always.
King  Rhodar  was vast  in  his crimson  mantle,  but the  other kings  and
generals wore rather plain clothing.

Ce'Nedra  entered the chamber  without knocking  and stared regally  at the
somewhat confused men who  struggled to their feet in acknowledgment of her
presence.

"Your Highness,"  King Rhodar began with  a portly bow. "You  honor us. Was
there-"

"Your Majesty," she responded  with a little curtsy, "and gentlemen, I find
that I need your advice in a matter of state."

"We are all at your immediate disposal, your Highness," King Rhodar replied
with sly little twinkle in his eyes.

"In  the absence  of  king Belgarion,  it appears  that I  must act  in his
stead," Ce'Nedra  annaunced, "and I need  your advice on how  to proceed. I
wish the  transfer of power into  my hands to go  as smoothly as possible."

They all stared at her disbelievingly.

King  Rhodar  recovered  his wits  first.  "An  interesting proposal,  your
Highness,"   he  murmured   politely.   "We  have,   however,  made   other
arrangements.  There's a  long-standing precedent  in the matter.  We thank
your Highness for her gracious offer nonetheless."

"It was not precisely  an offer, your Majesty," Ce'Nedra told him, "and any
previous precedents have been superceded."

King Anheg  was spluttering, but Rhodar  was already moving along smoothly.
Ce'Nedra realized  that the rotund Drasnian king was  likely to be her most
serious adversary - or  her most effective ally. "We'd all be fascinated to
examine  the instrument  vesting  your Highness  with royal  authority," he
said.   "I   presume   that  the   parchment   you   carry  is   relevant?"

"It  is  indeed,  your Majesty,"  Ce'Nedra  declared.  "The document  quite
clearly lists my responsibilities."

"May I?" Rhodar asked, extending his hand.

Ce'Nedra handed him the  parchment and he carefully unrolled it. "Uh - your
Highness. This  is your bethrothal agreement. Perhaps  you meant to bring a
different document."

"The  pertinent  material  is  contained  in  the  fourth  paragraph,  your
Majesty."

Rhodar quickly read the paragraph, frowning slightly.

"What does it say, Rhodar?" King Anheg asked impatiently.

"Interesting," Rhodar murmured, scratching his ear.

"Rhodar," Anheg complained, "what does it say?"

King Rhodar  cleared his  throat and began  to read aloud. "  'It is agreed
that  King Belgarion  and his  Queen shall  rule jointly,  and that  in his
absence  shall she  assume  fully the  duties  and authority  of the  Rivan
Throne.'"

"Let  me see that,"  Anheg demanded,  snatching the parchment  from Rhodar.

"It doesn't  mean anything," Brand declared. "She  isn't his queen yet. She
won't be until after the wedding."

"That's only a formality, my Lord Warder," Ce'Nedra told him.

"A rather important one, I'd say," he retorted.

"The precedent  is well-established,"  she said coolly. "When  a king dies,
the next  in line assumes the duties of the  crown, doesn't he, even though
there hasn't been a formal coronation?"

"That's different," Brand growled.

"I fail to see  the difference, my Lord. I have been designated Belgarion's
co-ruler. In his absence  or an emergency, I am obliged to take command. It
is my right and  my responsibility. The formalities may have to wait, but I
am the Rivan Queen. This is King Belgarion's will and intent. Will you defy
your king?"

"There's something  to what she says,  my Lord Warder," the  Earl of Seline
mused. "The document is quite clear."

"But look at this," Anheg said triumphantly. "In paragraph two it says that
should  the wedding  not  take place,  all gifts  are  to be  returned. The
wedding has not taken place."

"I'm not  sure that power is  a gift, Anheg," King  Fulrach suggested. "You
can't give it and then take it back."

"There's no  way she  could rule," Anheg declared  stubbornly. "She doesn't
know the first thing about Alorns."

"Neither did  Garion," King Cho-Hag  murmured in his quiet  voice. "She can
learn the same way he did."

Ce'Nedra  had been  rather  carefully assessing  their mood.  Most  of them
seemed willing  at least to consider her  idea. Only the two conservatives,
Brand  and Anheg,  were actually resisting.  It seemed  the time now  for a
dignified  withdrawal coupled  with a  disarming offer.  "I will  leave you
gentlemen to  discuss the matter," she  declared somewhat loftily. "I would
like  you to  know, however, that  I realize  the gravity of  the situation
confronting the West." She deliberately put on a winsome, little-girl face.
"I'm  only a  young  girl," she  confessed, "unused  to the  intricacies of
strategy and tactics. I could never make any decisions in that area without
the fullest advice from you gentlemen."

She  curtsied  then  to  King  Rhodar,  choosing  him  deliberately.  "Your
Majesty," she said, "I shall await your decision."

He bowed in response, a bit floridly. "Your Majesty," he replied with a sly
wink.

Ce'Nedra retired and literally flew down the corridors to her own quarters.
Breathlessly she closed the door behind her and touched the talisman at her
throat  with  trembling  fingertips.  She  sorted  quickly  through  random
conversation until she found the one she wanted.

"-refuse to be a party to an absurdity," Anheg was saying.

"Anheg, my friend," King Fulrach of Sendaria said with surprising firmness,
"you are  my dear brother king, bu you do have  a few blind spots. Wouldn't
it be  more statesmanlike  to consider the advantages  and disadvantages of
the situation dispassionately."

"The  Alorns  will  never  follow her,"  Anheg  declared.  "That's a  major
disadvantage right there."

"The Alorns will follow us, though," King Cho-Hag said quietly. "She's only
going   to  be   a   figurehead,  after   all   -  a   symbol  of   unity."

"I  suspect that  Cho-Hag's  hit the  exact  point we  should examine  most
closely,"  King Rhodar  urged.  "My apologies,  Baron Mandorallen,  but the
Arends are totally disunited.  Asturia and Mimbre are hovering on the verge
of  reopening  hostilities, and  a  call  from King  Korodullin could  very
possibly  be ignored  in  northern Arendia  -  in which  case the  Mimbrate
knights would  almost be compelled to stay  home to defend against possible
Asturian uprisings. We have  to have someone who can make them forget their
squabbles and  join with us. We  need the Asturian bowmen  and the Mimbrate
knights."

"I must  sadly concur, your Majesty,"  Mandorallen agreed. "My poor Arendia
must needs be united  in one cause from the outside. We are not wise enough
to unify ourselves."

"Ce'Nedra  can serve  us there as  well as  Garion could have  done," Barak
reasoned. "I don't think  anybody expected him to be a general. All we were
going to do was put a crown on him and let him ride at the head of the army
- and Arends get  all gushy and romantic about pretty girls. That betrothal
document makes  her claim at least semi-legitimate. All  we'd have to do is
act as  if we accepted her  and talk very fast. Add  the prospect of a nice
little  war someplace,  and  the Arends  will  unite behind  us, I  think."

"The  main point  to  consider, though,"  King Rhodar  emphasized,  "is the
impact she's  going to  have in Tolnedra.  Ran Borune dotes on  her, and he
might agree  to lend her his  legions - at least some  of them - which he'd
never do,  if we  were the ones asking  it of him. He'll  see the political
advantage  of  having her  in  command  almost immediately.  We need  those
legions. I personally don't like Tolnedrans, but the legions are the finest
fighting force in the  world. I'll bend my knee to Ce'Nedra if I have to in
order to get them. Let her play queen if she wants to."

Ce'Nedra smiled.  Things were going even better  than she had expected. All
in all, she was  quite pleased with herself as she sat down at her dressing
table  and  began  to  brush  her  hair,  humming  softly  all  the  while.





Chapter Twenty-three

DELBAN  THE  ARMORER WAS  a  gruff,  bald man  with  broad shoulders,  huge
callused hands and a  grizzled beard. He was a craftsman, an artist, and he
had absolutely no respect  for anyone. Ce'Nedra found him to be impossible.

"I don't  make armor  for women," was  his initial response  to her inquiry
when she,  accompanied by  Durnik the smith,  entered his workshop.  He had
then  turned his  back  on her  and begun  pounding noisily  on a  sheet of
glowing steel.  It took the better part of an hour  to convince him even to
consider the  idea. The heat shimmered out from  his glowing forge, and the
red brick walls seemed to reflect the heat and intensify it. Ce'Nedra found
herself perspiring heavily. She  had made some sketches of what she thought
might be a suitable  design for her armor. All in all, she thought it would
look  rather  nice,  but   Delban  laughed  raucously  when  he  saw  them.

"What's so amusing?" she demanded.

"You'd be like a  turtle in something like that," he replied. "You wouldn't
be able to move."

"The drawings are only  intended to give you a general idea," she told him,
trying to keep a grip on her temper.

"Why  don't  you  be a  good  girl  and take  these  to  a dressmaker?"  he
suggested. "I work in steel, not brocade or satin. Armor like this would be
useless,  and so  uncomfortable  that you  wouldn't  be able  to wear  it."

"Then   modify    it,"   she   grated   from    between   clenched   teeth.

He glanced at her  design again, then deliberately crumpled her drawings in
his  fist  and  threw  them into  the  corner.  "Foolishness," he  grunted.

Ce'Nedra resisted  the urge to scream.  She retrieved the drawings. "What's
the matter with them?" she persisted.

"Too much  here." He stabbed a thick finger  at the shoulder represented on
the drawing. "You wouldn't  be able to lift your arm. And here." He pointed
at the armhole on  the breastplate she had drawn. "If I make it that tight,
your arms  would stick straight out.  You wouldn't even be  able to scratch
your nose.  As long as we're  at it, where did you  get the whole notion in
the first place? Do  you want a mail shirt or a breastplate? You can't have
both."

"Why not?"

"The weight. You wouldn't be able to carry it."

"Make it lighter then. Can't you do that?"

"I can  make it like cobwebs  if you want, but  what good would it  be if I
did? You could cut through it with a paring knife."

Ce'Nedra  drew in a  deep breath. "Master  armorer," she  said to him  in a
level voice,  "look at me. In  all the world do  you think there's a single
warrior small enough for me to fight?"

He considered  her tiny form, scratching his bald  head and looking down at
her  with pursed  lips. "You are  a bit  undergrown," he admitted.  "If you
aren't going to fight, why do you need armor?"

"It's  not  actually  going  to be  armor,"  she  explained  to him  rather
impatiently, "but  I need to look  like I'm wearing armor.  It's sort of in
the nature  of a costume." She  saw instantly that her  choice of words had
been  a mistake.  Delban's face  darkened, and  he threw her  drawings away
again. It  took another ten minutes to  mollify him. Eventually, after much
wheedling and outrageous flattery,  she persuaded him to consider the whole
notion   as   something   in  the   nature   of   an  artistic   challenge.

"All  right," he  surrendered  finally with  a  sour look,  "take off  your
clothes."

"What?"

"Take your dress off," he repeated. "I need exact measurements."

"Do you realize what you're suggesting?"

"Little  girl," he  said testily,  "I'm a  married man. I've  got daughters
older   than  you   are.  You   are  wearing  underclothes,   aren't  you?"

"Yes, but "

"That will satisfy the demands of modesty. Take off the dress."

With a flaming face,  Ce'Nedra removed her dress. Durnik the smith, who had
watched the entire exchange from the doorway with an open grin on his face,
politely turned his back.

"You ought to eat more," Delban told her. "You're as scrawny as a chicken."

"I can do without the comments," she replied tartly. "Get on with this. I'm
not going to stand around in my chemise all day."

Delban picked  up a  piece of stout cord  with knots tied in  it at regular
intervals. He  took a  great many measurements with  the cord, meticulously
recording  them on  a piece of  flat board.  "All right," he  said finally.
"That ought to do it. Go ahead and get dressed again."

Ce'Nedra scrambled back into her dress. "How long will it take?" she asked.

"Two or three weeks."

"Impossible. I need it next week."

"Two weeks," he repeated stubbornly.

"Ten days," she countered.

For  the first  time  since she  had entered  his  workshop, the  blunt man
smiled.  "She's used  to getting her  own way,  isn't she?" he  observed to
Durnik.

"She's a  princess," Durnik informed him. "She  usually gets what she wants
in the end."

"All right, my scrawny little princess." Delban laughed. "Ten days."

Ce'Nedra beamed at him. "I knew you'd see it my way."

Precisely  ten days  later, the  princess, with  Durnik once again  in tow,
returned to  Delban's workshop. The mail  shirt the craftsman had fashioned
was  so light  that it could  almost have  been described as  delicate. The
helmet, hammered from thin steel, was surmounted with a white plume and was
encircled with a gold  crown. The greaves, which were to protect the fronts
of Ce'Nedra's  legs, fit to  perfection. There was even  an embossed shield
rimmed  with brass  and a  light sword  with an  ornate hilt  and scabbard.

Ce'Nedra, however, was staring disapprovingly at the breastplate Delban had
made for  her. It  would quite obviously  fit-too well. "Didn't  you forget
something?" she asked him.

He picked  the breastplate up in  his big hands and  examined it. "It's all
there," he  told her. "Front, back,  all the straps to  hook them together.
What else did you want?"

"Isn't it a trifle - understated?" Ce'Nedra suggested delicately.

"It's made to fit," he replied. "The understatement isn't my fault."

"I want  it a  little more-" She  made a sort  of curving  gesture with her
hands.

"What for?"

"Never mind what for. Just do it."

"What do you plan to put in it?"

"That's my business. Just do it the way I told you to."

He tossed  a heavy hammer down on his anvil. "Do  it yourself," he told her
bluntly.

"Durnik," Ce'Nedra appealed to the smith.

"Oh,  no, princess," Durnik  refused. "I  don't touch another  man's tools.
That just isn't done."

"Please, Delban," she wheedled.

"It's foolishness," he told her, his face set.

"It's important,"  she coaxed.  "If I wear  it like that, I'll  look like a
little boy.  When people see me,  they have to know  that I'm a woman. It's
terribly, terribly  important. Couldn't you - well  just a little bit?" She
cupped her hands slightly.

Delban gave Durnik a  disgusted look. "You had to bring her to my workshop,
didn't you?"

"Everybody said you were the best," Durnik replied mildly.

"Just a little bit, Delban?" Ce'Nedra urged.

Delban  gave  up. "Oh,  all  right,"  he growled,  picking  up his  hammer.
"Anything to get you  out of my shop - but not clear  out to here." He made
an exaggerated gesture.

"I'll depend  on your  good taste, Delban."  She smiled, patting  his cheek
with a fond little laugh. "Shall we say tomorrow morning?"

The armor, Ce'Nedra decided  the following morning as she inspected herself
in the mirror, was perfect. "Well, what do you think, Adara?" she asked her
friend.

"It  looks very  nice,  Ce'Nedra," the  tall girl  replied, although  a bit
dubiously.

"It's just exactly right,"  Ce'Nedra said happily, turning so that the blue
cape fastened to the  shoulder pieces of the breastplate flared and swirled
dramatically.  The  gleaming  mail shirt  she  wore  under the  breastplate
reached to  her knees and wrists.  The greaves covering her  calves and the
armguards  reaching  to  her  elbows were  inlaid  with  brass; Delban  had
steadfastly refused  the notion of gold. The armor  did chafe a bit through
the thick  linen undershirt she wore,  Ce'Nedra privately admitted, but she
was prepared to accept  that. She brandished her sword, studying the effect
in her mirror.

"You're holding it wrong, Ce'Nedra," Adara suggested politely.

"Show me," Ce'Nedra said, handing over hex sword.

Adara  took the  weapon and gripped  it firmly,  its point low.  She looked
extremely competent.

"Where   did   you  ever   learn   to   do  that?"   Ce'Nedra  asked   her.

"We're  given instruction,"  Adara replied,  handing back the  sword. "It's
traditional."

"Help me on with my shield."

Between  them,  they  managed  to gird  the  princess  in  all her  warlike
equipment.

"How ever  do you keep it  from getting tangled up  in your legs?" Ce'Nedra
demanded, fumbling with the long scabbard at her waist.

"Hold  on to  the hilt,"  Adara told  her. "Do  you want  me to  go along?"

Ce'Nedra thought about that as she smoothed her hair and settled her plumed
helmet more firmly in place. "I guess not," she decided rather reluctantly.
"I  think I'll  have  to face  them alone.  Do  I really  look  all right?"

"You'll be fine," Adara assured her.

A sudden thought struck the princess. "What if they laugh?" she demanded in
a frightened voice.

"You  could draw  your sword  on them,  I suppose," Adara  replied gravely.

"Are you making fun of me, Adara?"

"Of course not, Princess," Adara answered with an absolutely straight face.

When Ce'Nedra  reached the door to the council chamber,  she drew in a deep
breath and  entered, once again without  knocking. Knocking would have been
inappropriate, suggesting somehow that she had doubts about her right to be
there.

"Well,  gentlemen?" she  said to  the assembled  kings and generals  as she
stepped to the center of the room where they could all see her. King Rhodar
rose politely. "Your Majesty," he greeted her, bowing.

"We were  curious about your absence. The  reason is now abundantly clear."

"Do you  approve?" she could not help asking. She  turned so they could all
see her armor.

King Rhodar  looked at her, his eyes  speculative. "It is impressive, don't
you think?"  he said  to the others.  "Just the right touches  in the right
places. The Arends will flock to her, and the Tolnedrans - well, we'll have
to see about the Tolnedrans."

King Anheg  looked like a man having a  serious struggle with himself. "Why
do I  feel that I'm being pushed into  something?" he complained. "The very
notion  of this  makes my  blood cold,  but I  can't think of  any rational
arguments  against it."  He critically  scrutinized Ce'Nedra.  "She doesn't
really   look   all  that   bad,   does  she?"   he  conceded   grudgingly.

"It's absolutely  unnatural, of  course, but the armor  does add something.
This might even work."

"I'm so  glad I meet with your  Majesty's approval," Ce'Nedra almost gushed
at him. She tried to curtsy, but her armor made that impossible. She gave a
helpless little  laugh and  fluttered her eyelashes  at the brutish-looking
King of Cherek.

"Don't  do  that, Ce'Nedra,"  he  told  her irritably.  "I'm having  enough
trouble with this as  it is." He almost glared at her. "All right," he said
finally, "as  long as  we all understand  that she's not going  to make any
decisions, I'll  go along with the  idea. I don't like  it much, but that's
beside the point, I suppose." He stood up and bowed to her. "Your Majesty,"
he said, looking as if the words nearly choked him.

Ce'Nedra  beamed at  him  and instinctively  tried to  respond to  his bow.

"Don't bow, Ce'Nedra," he  advised her with a pained look. "The Overlord of
the West  doesn't bow to anyone." He turned in  exasperation to the King of
Drasnia. "That isn't going  to work, Rhodar. What are we going to call her?
The Overlady of the West? We'll be the laughingstock of the twelve kingdoms
if we do."

"We call her the Rivan Queen, my dear Anheg," King Rhodar replied urbanely.
"And  we  break  the   head  of  any  man  who  refuses  to  bow  to  her."

"You can count on that." Anheg scowled. "If I bow to her, everybody's going
to bow to her."

"I'm glad that's all been settled," a familiar voice came from a dim corner
of the council chamber.

"Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra gasped with a certain confusion. "I didn't realize
you were here."

"That's fairly obvious," Polgara  replied. "You have been busy, haven't you
dear?"

"I-" Ce'Nedra faltered.

Polgara carefully  set down her teacup  and moved into the  light. Her face
was  serious, but there  was a faintly  amused twinkle  in her eyes  as she
examined  the armor-clad  princess. "Very  interesting," was all  she said.

Ce'Nedra was crushed.

"Gentlemen," Polgara said to  the council, "I'm sure you still have much to
discuss.  In  the  meantime,  her Majesty  and  I  need  to  have a  little
discussion of  our own.  I'm sure you'll  excuse us." She  moved toward the
door.  "Come along,  Ce'Nedra,"  she said  without  so much  as a  backward
glance.

Trembling, the princess followed her from the room.

Polgara said  nothing until the door to her  own chambers had closed behind
them.  Then she  turned and looked  gravely at  the princess in  her armor.
"I've  heard about  what you've  been up  to, Ce'Nedra.  Would you  care to
explain?"

"They  were  all arguing  so  much,"  Ce'Nedra began  lamely. "They  needed
somebody to unite them."

"And you decided to take that upon yourself?"

"Well-"

"How did you know they were arguing?"

Ce'Nedra flushed guiltily.

"I  see,"  Polgara murmured.  "You've  discovered  how to  use my  sister's
amulet. How clever of you."

"Let me do it, Lady Polgara!" Ce'Nedra pleaded suddenly. "Let me lead them;
I  know I  can do  it. Let  me prove  that I'm  fit to be  Garion's queen."

Polgara  gazed  at  her  thoughtfully.  "You're growing  up  very  rapidly,
Ce'Nedra," she said finally.

"You'll let me do it?"

"We'll talk about it. Take off your helmet and shield, dear, and stand your
sword over in the  corner. I'll make us a nice cup of tea, and you can tell
me exactly what you've got in mind. I'd rather not have any surprises, once
we get started in this."

"You're going with us?"  For some reason that startled Ce'Nedra. "Of course
I am," Polgara told her. She smiled then. "Possibly I can keep at least you
out  of trouble.  I seem  not to  have had  much success with  Garion." She
stopped and looked rather  pointedly at Ce'Nedra's breastplate. "Isn't that
a trifle overdone, dear?"

Ce'Nedra blushed. "I thought it would be more - well -" She floundered with
it defensively.

"Ce'Nedra,"  Polgara told  her, "you  don't have  to be so  self conscious.
You're  still a  young  girl, after  all. Give  it  some time.  Things will
improve."

"I'm so  flat," the princess wailed, almost in  despair about it. A thought
occurred to her. "Do  you suppose you could - well -" She  made a sort of a
gesture.

"No, dear," Polgara said firmly. "That wouldn't be a good idea. It would do
some  very strange  things to  certain necessary  balances within  you, and
those are  not the sort of things to be tampered  with. Just be patient. If
nothing else, a few children will fill you out."

"Oh, Lady  Polgara," Ce'Nedra said with a  helpless little laugh, "you seem
to know  everything. You're like  the mother I never  had." Impulsively she
threw her arms about Polgara's neck.

Polgara wrinkled  her nose. "Ce'Nedra," she  suggested, "why don't you take
off your armor? You smell like an iron pot."

Ce'Nedra began to laugh.

In  the days  that  followed, a  number of  people  left Riva  on important
missions. Barak  sailed north to Val Alorn to  attend the outfitting of the
Cherek fleet. Mandorallen left  for Vo Mimbre to report to King Korodullin.
The fiery  young Lelldorin, who had received  a pardon at Garion's request,
took ship to return  to Asturia to make certain preparations there. Hettar,
Relg, and  Colonel Brendig  departed for Camaar, where  they would separate
and each would return home to oversee the final stages of the mobilization.
Events, which always moved  at their own pace, began to stir and quicken as
the West moved inexorably toward war.





Chapter Twenty-four

PRINCESS CE'NEDRA SOON discovered that Alorns were a surprisingly emotional
people. She was forced from the outset to abandon the stereotyped Tolnedran
view  of this  northern race  as brutish  savages, ravening on  the extreme
edges  of civilization.  She found  them instead  to be  an extraordinarily
complex people often capable of an extreme range of highly subtle emotions.

There was nothing subtle,  however, about the apoplectic fury of King Anheg
of Cherek  when he came bursting into the council  chamber a few days later
with his eyes bulging and his face aflame.

"Do  you  have  any  idea  what  you've  done?" he  bellowed  at  Ce'Nedra.

"Done to what, your Majesty?" she replied calmly.

"To Cherek!" he shouted,  his dented crown sliding down over one ear. "This
little game you've been  playing gave my wife the brilliant idea that she's
going to run my country while I'm gone."

"She's  your wife,  King Anheg,"  Ce'Nedra pointed  out coolly.  "It's only
proper that she should mind the kingdom in your absence."

"Mind?" he  almost screamed.  "Islena doesn't have a  mind. There's nothing
between  her   ears  but  empty  air."  "Why   did  you  marry  her  then?"

"It certainly wasn't for her mind."

"She might surprise you,  Anheg," King Rhodar suggested with an amused look
on his face.

"The only thing that  would surprise me would be to find anything left when
I get back," Anheg  retorted, collapsing in a chair. "And there's nothing I
can do to stop  her. No matter what I say, she'll assume the throne as soon
as  I  leave. It's  going  to  be a  disaster.  Women have  no business  in
politics. They're too weak-brained for it."

"I'm afraid  that suggestion won't endear you  very much in this particular
company,  Anheg." King  Rhodar chuckled,  glancing at  Polgara. One  of her
eyebrows had shot up at Anheg's last remark.

"Oh-sorry, Polgara,"  Anheg mustered,  embarrassed. "I didn't  mean you, of
course. I don't really think of you as a woman."

"I wouldn't pursue it any further, Anheg," King Rhodar advised him. "You've
blundered quite enough for one day already."

"That's  all right,  Rhodar," Polgara said  in a  frigid tone. "I  find the
observations of the King of Cherek most interesting."

Anheg winced.

"I  really can't  understand you,  my friend,"  King Rhodar said  to Anheg.
"You've given  yourself the  finest education in the  north. You've studied
art and  poetry and history and philosophy, but  on this one subject you're
as blind as an illiterate peasant. What disturbs you so much about the idea
of a woman with authority?"

"It's - it's unnatural,"  Anheg blurted. "Women were not meant to rule. The
whole idea violates the order of things."

"I'm not certain that  we're getting anywhere with this," Polgara observed.
"If you gentlemen will excuse us, her Majesty and I still have preparations
to   make."  She  rose   and  led   Ce'Nedra  from  the   council  chamber.

"He's very  excitable, isn't he?" Ce'Nedra  said as the two  of them passed
through  the  corridors  of   Iron-grip's  Citadel  toward  Lady  Polgara's
apartments.

"He tends  to be overdramatic at  times," Polgara replied. "These outbursts
of his aren't always  genuine. Sometimes he behaves the way he does because
he thinks people expect it of him." She frowned slightly. "He's right about
one thing,  though. Islena's not qualified  to rule. I think  we'll have to
have a talk  with her - and with the other ladies  as well." She opened the
door to her apartment, and the two of them went inside.

Most  of the  damage that had  resulted from  Polgara's vast rage  had been
repaired, and  there remained only a few scorchmarks  on the stone walls to
testify  to the violence  of her fury.  She seated  herself at a  table and
turned again to the letter which had arrived that morning from Queen Porenn
in Drasnia. "I think it's rather obvious that we're not going to be able to
catch  up  with  my  father and  the  others  now,"  she observed  somewhat
regretfully, but  at least there's one  thing we won't have  to worry about
any more."

"Which one is that?"  Ce'Nedra asked, seating herself across the table from
Polgara.

"There'd been  some question about my  father's recovery from that collapse
he suffered last winter, but from what Porenn says, he's completely back to
normal - although that's not an unmixed blessing." She laid Porenn's letter
aside. "I  think the  time's come for  us to have a  little talk, Ce'Nedra.
You've done  a great deal of  maneuvering and manipulating in  the past few
weeks. Now I want  to know exactly what's behind it all. Precisely why have
you   seen  fit  to   ram  your   new  status  down   everybody's  throat?"

Ce'Nedra  flushed. "I  am  the Rivan  Queen after  all, Lady  Polgara," she
replied stiffly.

"Don't be  absurd. You're wearing a  fictional crown because Rhodar decided
to let you wear  it, and because he's convinced Anheg and Brand and Cho-Hag
that  you're not  going  to do  any damage.  Now  what's behind  all this?"
Polgara's  look  was  very  direct, and  Ce'Nedra  squirmed  uncomfortably.

"We have  to bring in the  Arends and my father's  legions," she said as if
that explained it.

"That's fairly obvious."

"But the Alorn Kings wouldn't be able to do it."

"Why not?"

"Because a  committee can't  win people's hearts."  It was out  in the open
now, and  Ce'Nedra rushed on. "Garion  could have done it.  The entire West
would have  risen at the call of the Rivan King,  but Garion isn't here, so
somebody else has to do it. I've studied history, Lady Polgara. No army led
by a  committee has ever succeeded.  The success of an  army depends on the
spirit of the soldiers,  and the soldiers have to have one leader - someone
who fires their imagination."

"And you've elected yourself?"

"It doesn't  have to  be anybody brilliant  or anything -  not really. It's
just got to be somebody visible - and unusual."

"And you think that a woman's going to be unusual enough and visible enough
to raise  an army - and incidentally to pose enough  of a threat to attract
the undivided  attention of Taur Urgas  and'Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor?"

"Well, it's never been done before." Ce'Nedra felt a little defensive about
it.

"A  lot  of  things  have never  been  done  before,  Ce'Nedra. That's  not
necessarily the best recommendation  - and what convinced you that I wasn't
qualified?"

Ce'Nedra swallowed  hard. "You were so angry,"  she faltered, "and I wasn't
sure how  long you  were going to  stay angry. Somebody had  to take charge
immediately. Besides-" she hesitated.

"Go on."

"My  father doesn't  like  you," Ce'Nedra  blurted. "He'd  never  order his
legions to  follow you. I'm the  only one who has  a chance to convince him
that he  ought to join us. I'm sorry, Lady Polgara.  I don't mean to offend
you."

Polgara,  however,  waved  that  aside.  Her  face was  thoughtful  as  she
considered  Ce'Nedra's arguments. "It  would seem  that you have  given the
matter  some thought," she  concluded. "All  right, Ce'Nedra, we'll  try it
your way - for  now. Just don't do anything exotic. Now I think we'd better
have a talk with the ladies."

The  conference  that took  place  in Polgara's  apartments that  afternoon
concerned matters  of state. She waited quietly  until the little group had
all  gathered, and  then she  spoke to  them rather gravely.  "Ladies," she
began, "in a very short time the Alorns and others will be taking the field
on an expedition of some importance."

"You mean war, Pol?" Queen Layla asked in a sinking voice.

"We're  going  to try  to  avoid that  if  it's at  all possible,"  Polgara
replied. "At  any rate, the departure  of your husband and  the Alorn Kings
will leave affairs at home in your hands - and the same holds true for each
of you. I wanted  to go over a few things with all  of you before we left."
She turned to Queen  Islena, who was splendidly gowned in red velvet. "Your
husband is somewhat less than enthusiastic about any arrangements that will
leave you in charge of Cherek, Islena."

Islena sniffed. "Anheg can be tiresome at times."

"Try not  to agitate him. Drop a hint or two  that you'll allow yourself to
be  guided by  advisers he  trusts. It will  set his  mind at rest  a bit."
Polgara looked  around at them. "The  campaign is not likely  to take us so
far away  that you won't be  able to stay in touch with  us - not at first,
anyway.  If  anything  serious comes  up,  communicate  with your  husbands
immediately. Deal with the  day-to-day matters yourselves. I also think you
should all  stay in close contact with each  other, once your husbands have
left - and also  with Porenn in Boktor and Mayaserana in Vo Mimbre. You all
have your  strengths and your weaknesses, but if  you're not afraid to seek
advice from each other, everything will be all right."

"Possibly we  should arrange for some  kind of network for communications,"
Queen Layla mused thoughtfully. "Relays of horses, messengers, fast ships -
that  sort  of  thing.  The  Tolnedrans  have  done  that  for  centuries."

"I'm sure you'll be able to arrange it, Layla." Polgara smiled at her. "The
one  thing you  all must  remember is  to pay  close attention  to anything
Porenn  tells you.  I know  she's very  young and  a bit shy  about putting
herself forward, but Drasnian intelligence will report directly to her, and
she'll be  aware of things  long before any of  the rest of you  are. And I
want you  all to  keep a particularly  close watch on  the Tolnedrans. They
like  to take  advantage  of periods  of  turmoil. Absolutely  do not  sign
anything offered to you by a Tolnedran - no matter how attractive it looks.
I trust  Ran Borune  about as much  as I'd trust  a fox in a  henhouse - no
offense intended, Ce'Nedra."

"I  know my  father too,  Lady Polgara,"  Princess Ce'Nedra replied  with a
smile.

"Please, ladies," Polgara told  them firmly, "no adventures while I'm gone.
Just try  to keep things running  smoothly, and don't be  afraid to consult
with one another. You'll also want to keep in touch with Xantha. The Dryads
have access  to a  great deal of  information about what's going  on in the
south.  If  any  real  emergency  arises,  get  word  to  me  immediately."

"Will you  want me  to keep the little  boy?" Merel asked. "I'll  be at Val
Alorn with Islena, so he'll be safe with me. My girls are very fond of him,
and he seems happy with us."

Polgara thought about it for a moment. "No," she decided finally. "Errand's
going to have to go with me. Aside from Garion, he's the only person in the
world who can touch  the Orb. The Angaraks may realize that and try to take
him."

"I'll care  for him,"  Taiba offered in  her rich voice. "He  knows me, and
we're  comfortable with  each  other. It  will  give me  something to  do."

"Surely  you're not  planning to  go along  on the campaign,  Taiba," Queen
Layla objected.

Taiba shrugged. "Why not?"  she replied. "I don't have a house to keep or a
kingdom to oversee. There are other reasons, too."

They all  understood. What existed  between Taiba and Relg  was so profound
that it  seemed somehow outside the sphere  of normal human attachment, and
the Ulgo's  absence had caused the strange  woman something rather close to
physical pain.  It was now obvious  that she intended to  follow him - even
into battle if necessary.

Ariana, the blond Mimbrate  girl who had accompanied Lelldorin of Wildantor
to  Riva, cleared  her throat in  preparation to  raising a matter  of some
delicacy. "The lives of women are circumscribed by proprieties," she noted.
"Though battle doth rage about her and rude war turneth all to confusion, a
lady must  not be  unattended in the  midst of an army  lest her reputation
suffer. Lady  Adara and  I have of  late held some  conversation concerning
this and  have concluded  that we must  accompany Princess Ce'Nedra  as her
companions.  We would  do this  out of  duty even  were we not  impelled by
love."

"Very  nicely put,  Ariana," Adara  murmured without  any hint of  a smile.

"Oh  dear." Queen  Layla  sighed. "Now  I have  two  more to  worry about."

"I think  that covers  everything, then," Polgara said.  "Running a kingdom
isn't  all that  much different from  running a  house, and you've  all had
experience at  that. Don't  change any major  policies, and don't  sign any
treaties. Aside from that, just let yourselves be guided by common sense. I
think we can join the gentlemen now. It's getting on toward suppertime, and
men tend to grow restless if they aren't fed regularly."

A  few days  later,  Barak returned  to  Riva, accompanied  by a  leanfaced
Drasnian nobleman. The two  of them immediately went to the council chamber
to report  to the  kings. Princess Ce'Nedra considered  following them into
the  conference, but  decided against  it. Her  presence might  inhibit the
discussion,  and she had  another way to  find out  what was going  on. She
retired quickly  to her rooms and  touched her fingertips to  the amulet at
her throat.

"-going fairly  well," she  heard Barak's voice  say after she  had finally
located the conversation she wished to hear. "The fleet's ready to move out
of Val  Alorn, and Queen  Porenn's got the Drasnian  pikemen gathering just
south of Boktor. The mobilization's very nearly complete. I think we've got
some  problems, though.  Count  Kharel here  has just  returned  from Thull
Mardu. All the reports  out of northern Cthol Murgos have been channeled to
him, so  he can give us a fairly clear  assessment of the situation there."

King  Rhodar cleared  his  throat. "Kharel's  a very  senior member  of the
intelligence service,"  he said by way  of introduction. "I've always found
his reports to be extremely accurate."

"Your   Majesty   is   too    kind,"   an   unfamiliar   voice   responded.

"Have  the southern  Murgos  begun their  march north?"  King  Anheg asked.

"It  goes a  bit  farther than  that, your  Majesty," Kharel  replied. "All
reports  I have  indicate  that the  march is  nearly completed.  There are
somewhat in excess of  four million of them encamped in the vicinity of Rak
Goska."

"What?" Anheg exclaimed.

"It  appears that  Taur  Urgas began  the  march sometime  last fall,"  the
Drasnian told him.

"In the winter?"

"It seems so, your Majesty."

"I imagine  that cost him a few of his men,"  King Cho-Hag said. "A hundred
thousand  or so, your  Majesty," Kharel  answered, "but human  life doesn't
mean that much to Taur Urgas."

"This changes  everything, Rhodar," Anheg said  tersely. "Our advantage has
always  been the time  that march was  going to  take. We've lost  it now."

"Unfortunately there's more, your  Majesty," Kharel continued. "The western
Malloreans have begun to arrive at Thull Zelik. Their numbers aren't really
that  significant yet,  but they're  ferrying in  several thousand  a day."

"We've got  to cut that off as quickly as  we can," Anheg growled. "Rhodar,
can you  get your engineers to  the eastern escarpment within  a month? I'm
going  to have to  portage a fleet  across to  the headwaters of  the River
Mardu. We've got to get ships into the Sea of the East as soon as possible.
If  we  don't  head  off  Zakath,  his  Malloreans will  swarm  us  under."

"I'll send word to Porenn immediately," Rhodar agreed.

"One  wonders if the  noble count has  any good  news," the Earl  of Seline
suggested dryly.

"There is some possibility of division in the enemy ranks, my Lord," Kharel
replied.  "Taur Urgas  is  behaving as  if  he considers  himself the  only
possible choice  as overgeneral of the Angarak  armies; at the moment, he's
got the advantage of numbers on his side. That may change if the Malloreans
manage to land a  big enough army. There are rumors that 'Zakath would like
to dispute  the leadership of Taur  Urgas, but he's reluctant  to try it in
the face of four million Murgos."

"Let's try  to keep it that  way," Rhodar said. "Taur  Urgas is insane, and
crazy men make mistakes.  I've heard about 'Zakath, and I'd rather not face
him in the field."

King Cho-Hag spoke wryly.  "Even as it stands without the Malloreans, we're
going  to be  taking the  field at about  a two  to one disadvantage  - and
that's assuming that we can persuade the Arends and Tolnedrans to join us."

"It's a rotten way to start a war, Rhodar," Anheg complained.

"We'll  just have  to adjust  our tactics,"  Rhodar replied. "We've  got to
avoid a pitched battle  as long as possible to save as many men as we can."

"I  thought we  weren't even  considering a  battle," Barak  objected, "and
Belgarath said that all he wants is a diversion."

"The situation's changed, Barak,"  King Rhodar declared. "We hadn't counted
on the  southern Murgos or the  Malloreans being in place  this soon. We're
going  to have  to do  something a  bit more  significant than stage  a few
hit-and-run attacks. The Angaraks  have enough men now to be able to ignore
minor raids and skirmishes. If we don't make a major thrust - and very soon
they'll  spread   out  all  over  the   eastern  half  of  the  continent."

"Belgarath doesn't  like it when  you change plans on  him," Anheg reminded
Rhodar.

"Belgarath isn't here, and he doesn't know what's going on. If we don't act
rather decisively,  he and Belgarion and Kheldar  haven't a hope of getting
through."

"You're  talking about  a war  we can't  win, Rhodar," Anheg  said bluntly.

"I know," King Rhodar admitted.

There was a long silence.

"So that's the way it is, then," Brand said finally.

"I'm afraid  so," Rhodar told them somberly. "There  has to be a diversion,
or Belgarion and his sword will never get to the meeting with Torak. That's
the  only thing that  really matters, and  we'll all  have to lay  down our
lives if necessary to make it happen."

"You're going  to get us all killed, Rhodar,"  Anheg said bluntly, "and all
our armies with us."

"If  that's what it  takes, Anheg,"  Rhodar answered grimly.  "If Belgarion
doesn't get to Torak, our lives don't mean anything, anyway. Even if we all
have to die to get him there, it's still worth it."

Ce'Nedra's fingertips  slid numbly from her amulet as  she fell back in her
chair. Suddenly she began  to weep. "I won't do it," she sobbed. "I can't."
She saw before her  a multitude - an army of widows and orphans all staring
accusingly at her, and  she shrank from their eyes. If she perpetrated this
horror, the  rest of her life would be spent in  an agony of self loathing.
Still weeping,  she stumbled  to her feet,  fully intending to  rush to the
council chamber and declare  that she would have nothing further to do with
this futile war. But then she stopped as the image of Garion's face rose in
her  mind - that  serious face with  the unruly  hair she always  wanted to
straighten. He depended on her. If she shrank from this, the Angaraks would
be free  to hunt him down.  His very life -  and with it the  future of the
world -  was in her hands.  She had no choice but  to continue. If only she
did  not know that  the campaign was  doomed! It  was the knowledge  of the
disaster that awaited them that made it all so terrible.

Knowing that  it was useless, she  began to tug at  the chain that held the
amulet  about her  neck. Had  it not  been for  the amulet, she  would have
remained blissfully  ignorant of what lay  ahead. Still sobbing, she yanked
frantically at  the chain, ignoring the sting as it  cut into the soft skin
of her  neck. "I hate you!"  she blurted irrationally at  the silver amulet
with its crowned tree.

But it  was useless. The medallion would remain  chained about her neck for
the rest of her life. Ashen-faced, Ce'Nedra let her hands drop. Even if she
were able to remove the amulet, what good would it do? She already knew and
she must  conceal the knowledge in her heart. If  the faintest hint of what
she knew showed in her face or her voice, she would fail - and Garion would
suffer for  her failure.  She must steel  herself and face the  world as if
certain of victory.

And so  it was that the  Rivan Queen drew herself  erect and bravely lifted
her  chin   -  even  though  her  heart  lay   like  lead  in  her  breast.





Chapter Twenty-five

BARAK'S NEW SHIP was  larger by half than most of the other Cherek warboats
in the  fleet, but she moved before the spring  breeze like a gull skimming
low over  the water. Fleecy white  clouds ran across the  blue sky, and the
surface of the Sea  of the Winds sparkled in the sunlight as the great ship
heeled over  and cut cleanly through  the waves. Low on  the horizon before
them rose  the green shoreline of  the hook of Arendia.  They were two days
out from Riva, and  the Cherek fleet spread out behind them in a vast crowd
of  sails, carrying  the  graycloaked Rivans  to  join the  armies of  King
Fulrach of Sendaria.

Ce'Nedra nervously paced the  deck near the prow, her blue cloak tossing in
the wind  and her armor gleaming.  Despite the dreadful knowledge concealed
in her heart, there was an excitement to all of this. The gathering of men,
swords,  and ships,  the running before  the wind,  the sense of  a unified
purpose,  all combined  to  make her  blood race  and to  fill her  with an
exhilaration she had never felt before.

The coast ahead loomed larger - a white sand beach backed by the dark green
of the Arendish forest.  As they neared the shoreline, an armored knight on
a huge roan stallion  emerged from the trees and rode down the beach to the
edge  of the  water  where foamy  breakers crashed  on  the damp  sand. The
princess shaded her eyes  with one hand and peered intently at the gleaming
knight. Then, as he turned with a broad sweep of his arm which told them to
continue up the coast,  she saw the crest on his shield. Her heart suddenly
soared.

"Mandorallen!" she cried out  in a vibrant trumpet note as she clung to the
ropes in the very prow of Barak's ship, with the wind whipping at her hair.

The great knight waved a salute and, spurring his charger, galloped through
the seething  foam at the edge of the beach, the  silver and blue pennon at
the  tip of  his lance  snapping and  streaming over  his head.  Their ship
heeled over as Barak swung the tiller, and, separated by a hundred yards or
so of  foaming surf,  the ship and the  rider on the beach  kept abreast of
each other.

It was  a moment Ce'Nedra would remember for all her  life - a single image
so perfect that it seemed forever frozen in her memory. The great ship flew
before the  wind, cutting  the sparkling blue  water, with her  white sails
booming; the mighty warhorse on the beach plunged through the gleaming foam
at  the edge  of  the sand  with spray  flying out  from beneath  his great
hooves. Locked together in  that endless moment, ship and rider raced along
in the  warm spring sunshine toward a wooded  promontory a mile ahead, with
Ce'Nedra exulting in the  ship's prow and her flaming hair streaming like a
banner.

Beyond the promontory lay a sheltered cove, and drawn up on the beach stood
the camp of the  Sendarian army, row upon orderly row of dun-colored tents.
Barak swung his tiller over, and his sails flapped as the ship coasted into
the cove with the Cherek fleet close behind.

"Ho, Mandorallen!"  Barak bellowed as the anchor  ropes sang and great iron
anchors  plunged  down  through  crystal  water toward  the  sandy  bottom.

"My Lord  Barak," Mandorallen shouted his  reply, "welcome to Arendia. Lord
Brendig  hath devised  a means  to speed  thy disembarking." He  pointed to
where a  hundred or  so Sendarian soldiers  were busily poling  a series of
large rafts  into position, lashing  them together to form  a long floating
wharf extending out into the waters of the cove.

Barak  laughed.  "Trust a  Sendar  to  come up  with something  practical."

"Can we  go ashore now?" King  Rhodar asked plaintively as  he emerged from
the cabin. The king  was not a good sailor, and his broad, round face had a
pale greenish  cast to  it. He looked  oddly comical in his  mail shirt and
helmet,  and the  ravages of seasickness  on his  face added little  to his
dignity.  Despite  his unwarlike  exterior,  however, the  other kings  had
already begun  to defer to  his wisdom. Beneath his  vast rotundity, Rhodar
concealed a  genius for tactics and  a grasp of overall  strategy that made
the  others  turn  to  him almost  automatically  and  accept his  unspoken
leadership.

A small  fishing boat  that had been  pressed into service as  a ferry drew
alongside  Barak's ship,  almost before  the anchors  had settled,  and the
kings and their generals and advisers were transferred to the beach in less
than half an hour.

"I think  I'm hungry,"  Rhodar announced the  moment he stepped  onto solid
ground.

Anheg laughed.  "I think you were born hungry." The  king wore a mail shirt
and had a broad  swordbelt about his waist. His coarse features seemed less
out of place somehow, now that he was armed.

"I haven't been able  to eat for two days, Anheg." Rhodar groaned. "My poor
stomach's beginning to think I've abandoned it."

"Food  hath been  prepared,  your Majesty,"  Mandorallen assured  him. "Our
Asturian  brothers  have  provided  goodly numbers  of  the  king's deer  -
doubtless obtained  lawfully - though  I chose not to  investigate that too
closely."

Someone  standing in  the  group behind  Mandorallen laughed,  and Ce'Nedra
looked at  the handsome  young man with  reddish-gold hair and  the longbow
slung over  the shoulder  of his green  doublet. Ce'Nedra had  not had much
opportunity to become acquainted with Lelldorin of Wildantor while they had
been at Riva. She  knew him to be Garion's closest friend, however, and she
realized the  importance of  gaining his confidence.  It should not  be too
hard, she decided as she looked at his open, almost innocent face. The gaze
he  returned was  very  direct, and  one glance  into  those eyes  told the
princess  that there  was  a vast  sincerity and  very  little intelligence
behind them.

"We've  heard  from Belgarath,"  Barak  advised Mandorallen  and the  young
Asturian.

"Where are they?" Lelldorin demanded eagerly.

"They were  in Boktor," King Rhodar replied, his  face still a trifle green
from his  bout of  seasickness. "For reasons  of her own, my  wife let them
pass  through.  I imagine  they're  somewhere  in Gar  og  Nadrak by  now."

Lelldorin's eyes flashed. "Maybe  if I hurry, I can catch up with them," he
said eagerly, already starting to look around for his horse.

"It's fifteen hundred leagues, Lelldorin," Barak pointed out politely.

"Oh-" Lelldorin seemed a bit crestfallen. "I suppose you're right. It would
be a little difficult to catch them now, wouldn't it?"

Barak nodded gravely.

And then the blond Mimbrate girl, Ariana, stepped forward, her heart in her
eyes.  "My Lord,"  she said  to Lelldorin,  and Ce'Nedra remembered  with a
start that the two were married - technically at least. "Throe absence hath
given me great pain."

Lelldorin's eyes were immediately  stricken. "My Ariana." He almost choked.
"I swear  that I'll never leave  you again." He took  both her hands in his
and gazed  adoringly into her eyes. The gaze she  returned was just as full
of love  and just as empty  of thought. Ce'Nedra shuddered  inwardly at the
potential   for  disaster   implicit  in   the  look  the   two  exchanged.

"Does  anyone care  that I'm  starving to  death right  here on  the spot?"
Rhodar asked.

The  banquet was  laid  on a  long table  set  up beneath  a  gaily striped
pavilion on the beach  not far from the edge of the forest. The table quite
literally groaned under its weight of roasted game, and there was enough to
eat to  satisfy even  the enormous appetite  of King Rhodar.  When they had
finished   eating,   they   lingered   at  the   table   in   conversation.

"Thy son,  Lord Hettar, hath advised us that  the Algar clans are gathering
at  the Stronghold,  your Majesty,"  Mandorallen reported to  King Cho-Hag.

Cho-Hag nodded.

"And  we've had  word  from the  Ulgo-Relg," Colonel  Brendig  added. "He's
gathered a  small army of warriors  from the caves. They'll  wait for us on
the  Algarian  side  of  the mountains.  He  said  you'd  know the  place."

Barak grunted. "The Ulgos  can be troublesome," he said. "They're afraid of
open places,  and daylight hurts their  eyes, but they can  see in the dark
like cats. That could be very useful at some point."

"Did Relg send any  - personal messages?" Taiba asked Brendig with a little
catch in her voice.

Gravely,  the Sendar  took  a folded  parchment from  inside his  tunic and
handed it to her.  She took it with a rather helpless expression and opened
it, turning it this way and that.

"What's the matter, Taiba?" Adara asked quietly.

"He knows I can't  read," Taiba protested, holding the note tightly pressed
against her.

"I'll read it to you," Adara offered.

"But maybe it's - well-personal," Taiba objected.

"I promise  I won't listen," Adara  told her without the  trace of a smile.

Ce'Nedra  covered her  own  smile with  her hand.  Adara's  penetrating and
absolutely straight-faced  wit was one of  the qualities that most endeared
her to the princess.  Even as she smiled, however, Ce'Nedra could feel eyes
on her,  and she knew that  she was being examined  with great curiosity by
the Arends - both Asturian and Mimbrate - who had joined them. Lelldorin in
particular seemed unable to  take his eyes from her. The handsome young man
sat  close beside  the blond  Mimbrate girl,  Ariana, and stared  openly at
Ce'Nedra even while, unconsciously perhaps, he held Ariana's hand. Ce'Nedra
endured his scrutiny with a certain nervousness. To her surprise, she found
that   she    wanted   this   rather   foolish    young   man's   approval.

"Tell  me," she  said directly  to him,  "what are  the sentiments  here in
Asturia - concerning our campaign, I mean?"

Lelldorin's eyes clouded. "Unenthusiastic for the most part, your Majesty,"
he  replied. "I'm  afraid  there's suspicion  that this  might all  be some
Mimbrate plot."

"That's absurd," Ce'Nedra declared.

Lelldorin shrugged. "It's the  way my countrymen think. And those who don't
think it's  a plot  are looking at  the idea that all  the Mimbrate knights
might join  a crusade against the  East. That raises certain  hopes in some
quarters."

Mandorallen sighed. "The same sentiments exist in some parts of Mimbre," he
said. "We  are a woefully  divided kingdom, and old  hatreds and suspicions
die hard."

Ce'Nedra felt a sudden  wave of consternation. She had not counted on this.
King Rhodar  had made it plain  that he absolutely had  to have the Arends,
and now the idiotic  hatred and suspicion between Mimbre and Asturia seemed
about to  bring the entire  plan crashing down around  her ears. Helplessly
she turned to Polgara.

The sorceress, however, seemed undisturbed by the news that the Arends were
reluctant  to join  the campaign.  "Tell me,  Lelldorin," she  said calmly,
"could you gather some  of your less suspicious friends in one place - some
secure  place where  they won't be  afraid we  might want to  ambush them?"

"What have you got  in mind, Polgara?" King Rhodar asked, his eyes puzzled.

"Someone's going to have to talk to them," Polgara replied. "Someone rather
special, I think." She  turned back to Lelldorin. "I don't think we'll want
a large crowd  - not at first, anyway. Forty or fifty  ought to be enough -
and no one too violently opposed to our cause."

"I'll gather  them at once, Lady  Polgara," Lelldorin declared, impulsively
leaping to his feet.

"It's  rather  late,  Lelldorin,"  she pointed  out,  glancing  at the  sun
hovering low over the horizon.

"The  sooner  I  start,  the sooner  I  can  gather  them," Lelldorin  said
fervently. "If  friendship and  the ties of  blood have any sway  at all, I
will not fail." He bowed deeply to Ce'Nedra. "Your Majesty," he said by way
of farewell and ran to where his horse was tethered.

Ariana  sighed  as  she   looked  after  the  departing  young  enthusiast.

"Is he always like that?" Ce'Nedra asked her curiously.

The  Mimbrate girl nodded.  "Always," she  admitted. "Thought and  deed are
simultaneous with him. He  hath no understanding of the meaning of the word
reflection,  I  fear.  It  doth add  to  his  charm,  but  it is  sometimes
disconcerting, I must admit."

"I can imagine," Ce'Nedra agreed.

Later, when  the princess  and Polgara were  alone in their  tent, Ce'Nedra
turned a  puzzled look upon Garion's  Aunt. "What are we  going to do?" she
asked.

"Not we, Ce'Nedra - you. You're going to have to talk to them."

"I'm  not  very  good  at  speaking  in  public,  Lady  Polgara,"  Ce'Nedra
confessed,  her  mouth  going  dry. "Crowds  frighten  me,  and  I get  all
tongue-tied."

"You'll get over it, dear," Polgara assured her. She looked at the princess
with a  slightly amused expression. "You're  the one who wanted  to lead an
army, remember? Did you  really think that all you were going to have to do
was put on your  armor, jump into the saddle and shout 'follow me' and then
the whole world would fall in behind you?"

"Well-"

"You  spent all  that time studying  history and  missed the one  thing all
great  leaders have  had in  common? You  must have been  very inattentive,
Ce'Nedra."

Ce'Nedra stared at her with slowly dawning horror.

"It doesn't  take that  much to raise an  army, dear. You don't  have to be
brilliant; you don't have  to be a warrior; your cause doesn't even have to
be great and noble. All you have to do is be eloquent."

"I can't do that, Lady Polgara."

"You should have thought of that before, Ce'Nedra. It's too late to go back
now. Rhodar  will command the army  and see to it  that all the details are
taken care  of, but you're the one who'll have to  make them want to follow
you."

"I  wouldn't  have  the  faintest  idea  what  to say  to  them,"  Ce'Nedra
protested.

"It'll come  to you, dear. You do believe in  what we're doing, don't you?"

"Of course, but "

"You decided  to do this, Ce'Nedra. You decided it  all by yourself. And as
long as you've come this far, you might as well go all the way."

"Please, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra  begged. "Speaking in public makes me sick
at my stomach. I'll throw up."

"That happens  now and then," Polgara observed calmly.  "Just try not to do
it in front of everybody."

Three days  later, the princess, Polgara, and  the Alorn Kings journeyed to
the ruined  city of Vo Astur  deep in the silences  of the Arendish forest.
Ce'Nedra rode  through the sunny woods in a state  hovering on the verge of
panic. In  spite of all her arguments,  Polgara had remained adamant. Tears
had not  budged her; even  hysterics had failed. The  princess was morbidly
convinced that, even if she were to die, Polgara would prop her up in front
of the waiting throng and make her go through the agony of addressing them.
Feeling absolutely helpless, she rode to meet her fate.

Like Vo  Wacune, Vo Astur had been laid waste  during the dark centuries of
the Arendish  civil war. Its tumbled  stones were green with  moss and they
lay in  the shade of vast trees that seemed to  mourn the honor, pride, and
sorrow of  Asturia. Lelldorin was waiting, and  with him were perhaps fifty
richly  dressed young  noblemen, their  eyes filled with  curiosity faintly
tinged with suspicion.

"It's as  many as  I could bring  together in a short  time, Lady Polgara,"
Lelldorin apologized  after they  had dismounted. "There are  others in the
region, but  they're convinced that  our campaign is some  kind of Mimbrate
treachery."

"These  will do  nicely, Lelldorin,"  Polgara replied. "They'll  spread the
word about what happens  here." She looked around at the mossy, sun-dappled
ruins. "I think that spot over there will be fine." She pointed at a broken
bit of one of the walls. "Come with me, Ce'Nedra."

The  princess, dressed  in her  armor, hung  her helmet  and shield  on the
saddle of the white horse King Cho-Hag had brought for her from Algaria and
led  the  patient  animal   as  she  tremblingly  followed  the  sorceress.

"We  want  them to  be  able  to see  you  as  well as  hear you,"  Polgara
instructed, "so  climb up on that  piece of wall and  speak from there. The
spot where  you'll be  standing is in  the shade now, but  the sun's moving
around so that  it will be fully on you as you  finish your speech. I think
that will be a nice touch."

Ce'Nedra quailed as  she saw how far the sun had to  go. "I think I'm going
to be sick," she said in a quivering little voice.

"Maybe later,  Ce'Nedra. You don't  have time just now."  Polgara turned to
Lelldorin.  "I think  you  can introduce  her Majesty  now," she  told him.

Lelldorin  stepped up  onto  the wall  and held  up  his hand  for silence.
"Countrymen," he  announced in a  loud voice, "last Erastide  an event took
place which  shook our world to  its foundations. For a  thousand years and
more  we  have awaited  that  moment.  My countrymen,  the  Rivan King  has
returned!"

The throng stirred at his announcement, and an excited buzz rippled through
it.

Lelldorin, always  extravagant, warmed to his subject.  He told them of the
flaming sword that had announced Garion's true identity and of the oaths of
fealty  sworn to  Belgarion of  Riva by  the Alorn Kings.  Ce'Nedra, almost
fainting with  nervousness, scarcely heard  him. She tried to  run over her
speech in  her mind, but it all kept getting  jumbled. Then, in near panic,
she heard  him say,  "Countrymen, I present  to you her  Imperial Highness,
Princess Ce'Nedra  - the Rivan  Queen." And all eyes  turned expectantly to
her.

Trembling  in every  limb, she mounted  the broken  wall and looked  at the
faces  before  her.  All  her  preparations,  all  the  rehearsed  phrases,
evaporated from  her mind, and she  stood, white-faced and shaking, without
the   faintest  idea   of  how   to  begin.   The  silence   was  dreadful.

As chance  had it, one of the young Asturians in  the very front had tasted
perhaps more wine that  morning than was good for him. "I think her Majesty
has forgotten  her speech," he  snickered loudly to one  of his companions.

Ce'Nedra's  reaction  was instantaneous.  "And  I think  the gentleman  has
forgotten his manners," she  flared, not even stopping to think. Incivility
infuriated her.

"I don't  think I'm going to listen to this,"  the tipsy young man declared
in a tone filled  with exaggerated boredom. "It's just a waste of time. I'm
not a  Rivan and neither are  any of the rest of  you. What could a foreign
queen possibly say that would be of any interest to Asturian patriots?" And
he started to turn away.

"Is  the patriotic  Asturian gentleman  so wine-soaked that  he's forgotten
that there's more to  the world than this forest?" Ce'Nedra retorted hotly.
"Or perhaps  he's so unschooled  that he doesn't know  what's happening out
there." She  leveled a threatening  finger at him. "Hear  me, patriot," she
said in  a ringing  voice. "You may think  that I'm just here  to make some
pretty  little  speech, but  what  I've  come to  say  to you  is the  most
important thing you'll ever hear. You can listen, or you can turn your back
and walk  away-and a year from  now when there is  no Asturia and when your
homes are smoking in ruins and the Grolims are herding your families to the
altar of  Torak with its fire  and its bloody knives,  you can look back on
this day and curse yourself for not listening."

And then as if  her anger with this one rude young man had suddenly burst a
dam within  her, Ce'Nedra began to  speak. She spoke to  them directly, not
with the  studied phrases she had rehearsed, but  with words that came from
her  heart. The  longer  she spoke,  the more  impassioned she  became. She
pleaded; she cajoled -  and finally she commanded. She would never remember
exactly what she said,  but she would never forget how she felt as she said
it.  All the  passion and  fire that  had filled  the stormy  outbursts and
tantrums of  her girlhood came into full play.  She spoke fervently with no
thought  of herself,  but rather  with an  allconsuming belief in  what she
said. In the end she won them over.

As the  sun fell  full upon her, her  armor gleamed and her  hair seemed to
leap into  flame. "Belgarion, King of Riva and  Overlord of the West, calls
you to  war!" she declared to them. "I am Ce'Nedra,  his queen, and I stand
before you  as a living banner. Who among  you will answer Belgarion's call
and follow me?"

It was  the young man who had laughed at her  whose sword leaped first into
his  hand. Raising it  in salute, he  shouted, "I  will follow!" As  if his
declaration were a signal, half a hundred swords flashed in the sunlight as
they were raised in salute and pledge, and half a hundred voices echoed his
shout. "I will follow!"

With a  broad sweep of her arm, Ce'Nedra drew her  own sword and lifted it.
"Follow,  then!" she  sang to  them. "We  ride to  meet the fell  hordes of
Angarak. Let the world  tremble at our coming!" With three quick steps, she
reached her horse and  literally threw herself into the saddle. She wheeled
her prancing  mount and  galloped from the  ruins, her sword  aloft and her
flaming hair streaming. The  Asturians as one man rushed to their horses to
follow.

As  she plunged  into the  forest, the  princess glanced  back once  at the
brave, foolish young men galloping behind her, their faces exalted. She had
won, but  how many of these  unthinking Asturians would she  lead back when
the war  was done? How many  would die in the wastes  of the East? Her eyes
suddenly filled  with tears; but,  dashing those tears away  with one hand,
the Rivan  Queen galloped on, leading the Asturians  back to join her army.



Chapter Twenty-six

THE ALORN  KINGS praised  Ce'Nedra extravagantly, and  hard-bitten warriors
looked  at her  with  open admiration.  She lapped  up their  adulation and
purred like a happy kitten. The only thing that kept her triumph from being
complete was Polgara's strange silence. Ce'Nedra was a little hurt by that.
The  speech had  not  been perfect,  perhaps,  but it  had won  Lelldorin's
friends  completely,  and  surely  success made  up  for  any minor  flaws.

Then,  when  Polgara  sent  for  her  that evening,  Ce'Nedra  thought  she
understood. The  sorceress wished  to congratulate her  in private. Humming
happily to  herself, the  princess went along  the beach to  Polgara's tent
with the sound of waves on the white sand in her ears.

Polgara  sat at  her  dressing table,  alone except  for the  sleepy child,
Errand.  The candlelight  played  softly over  her deep  blue robe  and the
perfection of  her features as she  brushed her long, dark  hair. "Come in,
Ce'Nedra,"  she  said.  "Sit  down.  We  have  a great  deal  to  discuss."

"Were you  surprised, Lady  Polgara?" The princess could  no longer contain
herself. "You were, weren't you? I even surprised myself."

Polgara looked  at her  gravely. "You mustn't  allow yourself to  become so
excited,  Ce'Nedra. You  have to  learn to  conserve your strength  and not
squander it by dashing about in hysterical self congratulation."

Ce'Nedra stared at her. "Don't you think I did well today?" she asked, hurt
to the quick.

"It was a very  nice speech, Ce'Nedra," Polgara told her in a way that took
all the fun out of it.

A strange  thought occurred to  the princess then. "You  knew, didn't you?"
she blurted. "You knew all along."

A faint  flicker of amusement  touched Polgara's lips. "You  always seem to
forget  that I  have certain  advantages, dear,"  she replied, "and  one of
those is that  I have a general idea of how things  are going to turn out."

"How could you possibly-"

"Certain events don't just happen, Ce'Nedra. Some things have been implicit
in this world since  the moment it was made. What happened today was one of
those things."  She reached over and picked up  an age darkened scroll from
the  table. "Would  you like  to hear  what the  Prophecy says  about you?"

Ce'Nedra felt a sudden chill.

Polgara ran her eyes  down the crackling parchment. "Here it is," she said,
lifting the  scroll into the candlelight. " 'And the  voice of the Bride of
Light shall be heard  in the kingdoms of the world,' " she read, " 'and her
words shall be as a fire in dry grass, that the multitudes shall rise up to
go forth under the blaze of her banner."'

"That doesn't mean anything at all, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra objected. "It's
absolute gibberish."

"Does it  become any clearer when you find out that  Garion is the Child of
Light?"

"What is that?" Ce'Nedra demanded, staring at the parchment. "Where did you
get it?"

"It's the  Mrin Codex, dear. My father copied it  for me from the original.
It's a  bit obscure because the Mrin prophet  was so hopelessly insane that
he couldn't  speak coherently. King Dras Bull-neck  finally had to keep him
chained to a post like a dog."

"King Dras? Lady Polgara, that was over three thousand years ago!"

"About that long, yes," Polgara agreed.

Ce'Nedra began to tremble. "That's impossible!" she blurted.

Polgara  smiled. "Sometimes,  Ce'Nedra,  you sound  exactly like  Garion. I
wonder why young people are so fond of that word."

"But,  Lady Polgara,  if  it hadn't  been for  that  young man  who  was so
insulting, I  might not  have said anything  at all." The  princess bit her
lip. She had not meant to confess that.

"That's probably  why he was  so insulting, then. It's  quite possible that
insulting you at that  particular moment was the only reason he was born in
the first  place. The Prophecy leaves  nothing to chance. Do  you think you
might need him to help you get started next time? I can arrange to have him
get drunk again if you do."

"Next time?"

"Of  course. Did you  think that one  speech to  a very small  audience was
going to be the  end of it? Really, Ce'Nedra, you have to learn to pay more
attention to  what's going on. You're  going to have to  speak in public at
least once a day for the next several months."

The   princess  stared   at  her   in  horror.   "I  can't!"   she  wailed.

"Yes, you  can, Ce'Nedra.  Your voice will  be heard in the  land, and your
words shall be as a fire in dry grass, and the multitudes of the West shall
rise up  to follow your banner. Down through  all the centuries, I've never
known the  Mrin Codex  to be wrong -  not once. The important  thing at the
moment is for you  to get plenty of rest and to eat regularly. I'll prepare
your  meals myself."  She looked  rather critically  at the tiny  girl. "It
would help if you were a bit more robust, but I guess we'll have to make do
with what  we have.  Go get your  things, Ce'Nedra. From now  on, you'll be
staying  with  me. I  think I'm  going  to want  to  keep an  eye on  you."

In  the weeks  that  followed, they  moved  down through  the moist,  green
Arendish  forest,  and  word of  their  coming  spread throughout  Asturia.
Ce'Nedra was  dimly aware  that Polgara was carefully  controlling the size
and composition of the audiences to be addressed. Poor Lelldorin was seldom
out  of his  saddle as  he and  a carefully  selected group of  his friends
ranged   ahead  of   the   advancing  army   to  prepare   each  gathering.

Ce'Nedra, once she had finally accepted her duty, had assumed that speaking
in public  would grow  easier with practice. Unfortunately,  she was wrong.
Panic still  gripped her before  each speech, and quite  frequently she was
physically  sick.  Although  Polgara assured  her  that  her speeches  were
getting better, Ce'Nedra complained  that they were not getting easier. The
drain on her physical  and emotional reserves became more and more evident.
Like most  girls her age, Ce'Nedra could and  often did talk endlessly, but
her orations were not  random talk. They required an enormous control and a
tremendous  expenditure of  emotional energy,  and no  one could  help her.

As  the crowds  grew larger,  however, Polgara  did provide  some aid  in a
purely technical matter. "Just  speak in a normal tone of voice, Ce'Nedra,"
she instructed. "Don't exhaust  yourself by trying to shout. I'll see to it
that everybody can hear you." Aside from that, however, the princess was on
her own,  and the strain became more and  more visible. She rode listlessly
at  the head  of  her growing  army, seeming  sometimes almost  to be  in a
trance.

Her friends watched her and worried.

"I'm  not sure how  much longer she  can keep  up this pace,"  King Fulrach
confided to  King Rhodar as  they rode directly behind  the drooping little
queen toward  the ruins of Vo Wacune, where she  was to address yet another
gathering. "I think we  tend sometimes to forget how small and delicate she
is."

"Maybe we'd better consult  with Polgara," King Rhodar agreed. "I think the
child needs a week's rest."

Ce'Nedra, however,  knew that she could  not stop. There was  a momentum to
this, a  kind of  accelerating rhythm that  could not be  broken. At first,
word of her coming had spread slowly, but now it ran ahead of them, and she
knew  they must  run faster  and faster  to keep  up with  it. There  was a
crucial point  at which  the curiosity about  her must be  satisfied or the
whole  thing  would  collapse  and she'd  have  to  begin  all over  again.

The  crowd  at Vo  Wacune  was  the largest  she  had  yet addressed.  Half
convinced already,  they needed  only a single  spark to ignite  them. Once
again sick  with unreasoning  panic, the Rivan Queen  gathered her strength
and  rose to  address them  and to set  them aflame  with her call  to war.

When it  was over and the  young nobles had been  gathered into the growing
ranks  of  the army,  Ce'Nedra  sought a  few  moments of  solitude on  the
outskirts  of  the camp  to  compose herself.  This  had become  a kind  of
necessary  ritual  for her.  Sometimes  she  was sick  after  a speech  and
sometimes  she wept.  Sometimes  she merely  wandered listlessly,  not even
seeing  the  trees  about  her.  At Polgara's  instruction,  Durnik  always
accompanied her,  and Ce'Nedra  found the company of  this solid, practical
man strangely comforting.

They had walked some  distance from the ruins. The afternoon was bright and
sunny, and birds sang  among the trees. Pensively, Ce'Nedra walked, letting
the  peace   of  the   forest  quiet  the  agitated   turmoil  within  her.

"It's all very well  for noblemen, Detton," she heard someone say somewhere
on the  other side  of a thicket,  "but what does  it have to  do with us?"

"You're  probably right, Lammer,"  a second  voice agreed with  a regretful
sigh. "It was very stirring, though, wasn't it?"

"The only  thing that  ought to stir  a serf is  the sight  of something to
eat," the  first man declared bitterly.  "The little girl can  talk all she
wants about duty, but  my only duty is to my stomach." He stopped abruptly.
"Are  the  leaves  of  that  plant  over  there  fit  to  eat?"  he  asked.

"I think they're poisonous, Lammer," Detton replied.

"But you're  not sure? I'd hate  to pass up something  I could eat if there
was any chance that it wouldn't kill me."

Ce'Nedra listened  to the two  serfs with growing horror.  Could anybody be
reduced  to that  level?  Impulsively, she  stepped around  the  thicket to
confront   them.   Durnik,   as  always,   stayed   close   by  her   side.

The two  serfs were  dressed in mud-spattered  rags. They were  both men of
middle years, and there  was no evidence on their faces that either of them
had ever  known a happy day. The leaner of the  two was closely examining a
thick-leafed weed, but the  other saw Ce'Nedra approaching and started with
obvious fright. "Lammer." He  gasped. "It's her - the one who spoke today."

Lammer  straightened,  his gaunt  face  going  pale beneath  the dirt  that
smudged it.  "Your Ladyship," he said, grotesquely  trying to bow. "We were
just  on our  way back  to our villages.  We didn't  know this part  of the
forest was yours. We  didn't take anything." He held out his empty hands as
if to prove his words.

"How long  has it been since  you've had anything to  eat?" she demanded of
him.

"I ate some grass  this morning, your Ladyship," Lammer replied, "and I had
a couple of turnips  yesterday. They were a little wormy, but not too bad."

Ce'Nedra's eyes  suddenly filled with tears. "Who's  done this to you?" she
asked him.

Lammer  looked  a little  confused  at  her question.  Finally he  shrugged
slightly. "The  world, I  guess, your Ladyship.  A certain part  of what we
raise goes  to our lord, and  a certain part to  his lord. Then there's the
part that  has to go to  the king and the part that has  to go to the royal
governor. And we're still paying for some wars my lord had a few years ago.
After  all  of that's  been  paid,  there isn't  very  much  left for  us."

A horrible thought struck her. "I'm gathering an army for a campaign in the
East," she told them.

"Yes,  your Ladyship,"  the  other serf,  Detton, replied.  "We  heard your
speech today."

"What will that do to you?"

Detton shrugged. "It will  mean more taxes, your Ladyship - and some of our
sons  will be taken  for soldiers if  our lords  decide to join  you. Serfs
don't really  make very good  soldiers, but they can  always carry baggage.
And when  the time  comes to storm a  castle, the nobility seem  to want to
have a lot of serfs around to help with the dying."

"Then you never feel any patriotism when you go to war?"

"What could  patriotism have to do with serfs,  my Lady?" Lammer asked her.
"Until a month or so ago I didn't even know the name of my country. None of
it   belongs  to   me.  Why   should  I   have  any  feelings   about  it?"

Ce'Nedra  could not  answer that  question. Their  lives were so  bleak, so
hopelessly empty, and her  call to war meant only greater hardship and more
suffering for them. "What  about your families?" she asked. "If Torak wins,
the  Grolims  will  come  and  slaughter  your  families  on  his  altars."

"I have  no family, my Lady," Lammer replied in a  dead voice. "My son died
several  years ago.  My lord was  fighting a  war somewhere, and  when they
attacked a castle, the people inside poured boiling pitch down on the serfs
who were  trying to raise a ladder. My wife  starved herself to death after
she heard  about it. The Grolims can't hurt either one  of them now, and if
they want to kill me, they're welcome to."

"Isn't   there  anything   at  all   you'd  be   willing  to   fight  for?"

"Food, I suppose," Lammer said after a moment's thought. "I'm very tired of
being hungry."

Ce'Nedra turned to the other serf. "What about you?" she asked him.

"I'd walk  into fire  for somebody who  fed me," Detton  replied fervently.

"Come with  me," Ce'Nedra  commanded them, and  she turned and  led the way
back to  the camp and the  large, bulky supply wagons  that had transported
the vast quantities of food from the storehouses of Sendaria. "I want these
two men fed," she told a startled cook. "As much as they can eat."

Durnik,  however, his  honest  eyes brimming  with compassion,  had already
reached into one of the wagons and taken out a large loaf of bread. He tore
it in two and gave half to Lammer and half to Detton.

Lammer  stared at  the chunk  of bread  in his hands,  trembling violently.
"I'll follow  you, my Lady," he declared in  a quavering voice. "I've eaten
my shoes and lived  on boiled grass and tree roots." His fists closed about
the chunk  of bread  as if he were  afraid someone might take  it away from
him. "I'll  follow you to the  end of the world and  back for this." And he
began to eat, tearing at the bread with his teeth.

Ce'Nedra stared at him, and then she suddenly fled. By the time she reached
her  tent  she was  weeping  hysterically.  Adara and  Taiba tried  without
success   to   comfort   her,   and   finally  they   sent   for   Polgara.

When the  sorceress arrived,  she took one  brief look and  asked Taiba and
Adara to leave her  alone with the sobbing girl. "All right, Ce'Nedra," she
said calmly,  sitting on  the bed and  gathering the princess  in her arms,
"what's this all about?"

"I can't  do it  any more, Lady  Polgara," Ce'Nedra cried.  "I just can't."

"It   was  your   idea  in   the  first   place,"  Polgara   reminded  her.

"I  was wrong."  Ce'Nedra sobbed.  "Wrong, wrong!  I should have  stayed in
Riva."

"No," Polgara disagreed. "You've done something that none of the rest of us
could have. You've guaranteed us the Arends. I'm not even sure Garion could
have done that."

"But they're all going to die!" Ce'Nedra wailed.

"Where did you get that idea?"

"The  Angaraks are  going  to outnumber  us at  least  two to  one. They'll
butcher my army."

"Who told you that?"

"I - I listened," Ce'Nedra replied, fumbling with the amulet at her throat.
"I heard what Rhodar,  Anheg, and the others said when they heard about the
southern Murgos."

"I see," Polgara said gravely.

"We're going  to throw away our lives. Nothing can save  us. And just now I
even found  a way to bring the serfs into it.  Their lives are so miserable
that they'll  follow me just for  the chance to eat  regularly. And I'll do
it, Lady Polgara. If I think I might need them, I'll deliberately take them
from  their homes  and lead  them to  their deaths.  I can't  help myself."

Polgara took  a glass  from a nearby  table and emptied a  small glass vial
into  it. "The  war isn't over  yet, Ce'Nedra.  It hasn't even  begun." She
swirled the dark amber liquid around in the bottom of the glass. "I've seen
hopeless  wars won  before. If  you give  in to  despair before  you begin,
you'll have  no chance at all. Rhodar's a  very clever tactician, you know,
and the  men in  your army are  very brave. We  won't commit  to any battle
until we absolutely have to, and if Garion can reach Torak in time - and if
he wins - the  Angaraks will fall apart, and we won't have to fight them at
all. Here." She held out the glass. "Drink this."

Numbly, Ce'Nedra took the glass and drank. The amber liquid was bitter, and
it  left a  strange,  fiery aftertaste  in her  mouth.  "It all  depends on
Garion, then," she said.

"It always has depended on him, dear," Polgara told her.

Ce'Nedra sighed. "I wish-" she began, then faltered to a stop.

"Wish what, dear?"

"Oh,  Lady Polgara,  I never  once told  Garion that  I love him.  I'd give
anything to be able to tell him that just once."

"He knows, Ce'Nedra."

"But it's  not the  same." Ce'Nedra sighed  again. A strange  lassitude had
begun  to creep  over her,  and she  had stopped  crying. It  was difficult
somehow even  to remember why she had been  weeping. She suddenly felt eyes
on her and turned.  Errand sat quietly in the corner watching her. His deep
blue eyes were filled with sympathy and, oddly, with hope. And then Polgara
took the  princess in her arms and began rocking  slowly back and forth and
humming  a  soothing kind  of  melody.  Without knowing  when it  happened,
Ce'Nedra fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The attempt  on her life came the following  morning. Her army was marching
south from  Vo Wacune,  passing through the  sunlit forest along  the Great
West Road. The princess  was riding at the head of the column, talking with
Barak and  Mandorallen, when an arrow, buzzing  spitefully, came out of the
trees. It  was the buzz that gave Barak an  instant of warning. "Look outl"
he  shouted, suddenly covering  Ce'Nedra with  his great shield.  The arrow
shattered  against  it,  and  Barak,  cursing  horribly,  drew  his  sword.

Brand's youngest  son, Olban, however,  was already plunging at  a dead run
into the  forest. His face had  gone deathly pale, and  his sword seemed to
leap into  his hand as he spun his horse. The  sound of his galloping mount
faded back  among the  trees. After several  moments, there was  a dreadful
scream.

Shouts of  alarm came  from the army  behind them and a  confused babble of
voices. Polgara rode forward, her face white.

"I'm all  right, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra  assured her quickly. "Barak saved
me."

"What happened?" Polgara demanded.

"Someone shot an arrow  at her," Barak growled. "If I hadn't heard it buzz,
it might have been very bad."

Lelldorin had  picked up  the shattered arrow  shaft and was  looking at it
closely. "The  fletching is  loose," he said,  rubbing his finger  over the
feathers. "That's what made it buzz like that."

Olban came  riding back  out of the  forest, his bloody sword  still in his
hand. "Is  the queen safe?" he demanded; for  some reason, his voice seemed
on the verge of hysteria.

"She's fine," Barak said, looking at him curiously.

"Who was it?"

"A Murgo, I think," Olban replied. "He had scars on his cheeks."

"Did you kill him?"

Olban nodded. "Are you sure you're all right, my Queen?" he asked Ce'Nedra.
His  pale,  blond hair  was  tousled, and  he  seemed very  young and  very
earnest.

"I'm just  fine, Olban," she replied. "You were  very brave, but you should
have waited  instead of riding off  alone like that. There  might have been
more than one."

"Then  I'd have killed  them all,"  Olban declared fiercely.  "I'll destroy
anyone who  even raises a finger  against you." The young  man was actually
trembling with rage.

"Thy dedication becomes thee, young Olban," Mandorallen told him.

"I think we'd better  put out some scouts," Barak suggested to King Rhodar.
"At least  until we get out  of these trees. Korodullin  was going to chase
all  the Murgos  out  of Arendia,  but it  looks  as if  he missed  a few."

"Let me lead the scouting parties," Olban begged.

"Your son  has a  great deal of  enthusiasm," Rhodar observed  to Brand. "I
like that  in a young man." He turned back to  Olban. "All right," he said.
"Take as many men as you need. I don't want any Murgos within five miles of
the princess."

"You have  my word on it," Olban declared,  wheeling his horse and plunging
back into the forest.

They  rode  a bit  more  cautiously  after that,  and  archers were  placed
strategically to  watch the crowd when  Ce'Nedra spoke. Olban rather grimly
reported that a few  more Murgos had been flushed out of the trees ahead of
them, but there were no further incidents.

It was very nearly the first day of summer when they rode out of the forest
onto the central Arendish  plain. Ce'Nedra by that time had gathered nearly
every able-bodied  Asturian into her army, and  her hosts spread out behind
her in  a sea of humanity  as she led the  way out onto the  plain. The sky
above was  very blue as they left the trees behind,  and the grass was very
green beneath the hooves of their horses.

"And where now, your Majesty?" Mandorallen inquired.

"To Vo Mimbre," Ce'Nedra  replied. "I'll speak to the Mimbrate knights, and
then we'll go on to Tolnedra."

"I hope your father  still loves you, Ce'Nedra," King Rhodar said. "It will
take a  lot of  love to make  Ran Borune forgive you  for entering Tolnedra
with this army at your back."

"He adores me," Ce'Nedra  assured him confidently. King Rhodar still looked
dubious.

The  army marched  down through  the plains  of central Arendia  toward the
capital  at Vo  Mimbre  where King  Korodullin had  assembled  the Mimbrate
knights and  their retainers. The weather  continued fair, and they marched
in bright sunshine.

One sunny morning shortly after they had set out, Lady Polgara rode forward
and joined Ce'Nedra at the head of the column. "Have you decided how you're
going to deal with your father yet?" she asked.

"I'm  not  sure,"  the  princess  confessed.  "He's probably  going  to  be
extremely difficult."

"The Borunes usually are."

"1'm a Borune, Lady Polgara."

"I  know."  Polgara looked  penetratingly  at the  princess. "You've  grown
considerably   in    the   past   few   months,    dear,"   she   observed.

"I didn't  really have much choice,  Lady Polgara. This all  came on rather
suddenly." Ce'Nedra  giggled then  as a thought suddenly  struck her. "Poor
Garion." She laughed.

"Why poor Garion?"

"I was horrid to him, wasn't I?"

"Moderately horrid, yes."

"How were any of you able to stand me?"

"We clenched our teeth frequently."

"Do you  think he'd be proud  of me - if  he knew what I'm  doing, I mean?"

"Yes," Polgara told her, "I think he would be."

"I'm going  to make  it all up  to him, you know,"  Ce'Nedra promised. "I'm
going to be the best wife in the world."

"That's nice, dear."

"I won't scold or shout or anything."

"Don't  make  promises  you can't  keep,  Ce'Nedra,"  Polgara said  wisely.

"Well," the little princess amended, "almost never anyway."

Polgara smiled. "We'll see."

The Mimbrate knights were encamped on the great plain before the city of Vo
Mimbre. Together with their  men-at-arms, they comprised a formidable army,
glittering in the sunlight.

"Oh dear," Ce'Nedra faltered  as she stared down at the vast gathering from
the hilltop  where she  and the Alorn  Kings had ridden to  catch the first
glimpse of the city.

"What's the problem?" Rhodar asked her.

"There are so many of them."

"That's the whole idea, isn't it?"

A tall  Mimbrate knight  with dark hair  and beard, wearing  a black velvet
surcoat over  his polished armor, galloped  up the hill and  reined in some
yards before them. He looked from face to face, then inclined his head in a
polite  bow. He  turned  to Mandorallen.  "Greetings to  the Bastard  of Vo
Mandor from Korodullin, King of Arendia."

"You still haven't gotten  that straightened out, have you?" Barak muttered
to Mandorallen.

"I have  not had leisure, my  Lord," Mandorallen replied. He  turned to the
knight. "Hail and well-met,  Sir Andorig. I pray thee, convey our greetings
to his  Majesty and advise him  that we come in  peace - which he doubtless
doth know already."

"I will, Sir Mandorallen," Andorig responded.

"How's  your  apple tree  doing,  Andorig?" Barak  asked, grinning  openly.

"It  doth flourish, my  Lord of  Trellheim," Andorig answered  proudly. "My
care for it bath been most tender, and I have hopes of a bounteous harvest.
I am confident that  I have not disappointed Holy Belgarath." He turned and
clattered back down the  hill, sounding his horn every hundred yards or so.

"What was  that all about?" King Anheg asked  his red-bearded cousin with a
puzzled frown.

"We've been here before," Barak replied. "Andorig didn't believe us when we
told him who Belgarath was. Belgarath made an apple tree grow up out of the
stones   of   the   courtyard,   and   that   sort   of   convinced   him."

"I pray thee," Mandorallen  said then, his eyes clouded with a sudden pain.
"I see  the approach of dear  friends. I shall return  presently." He moved
his horse at  a canter toward a knight and a lady  who were riding out from
the city.

"Good man  there," Rhodar mused, watching the  great knight as he departed.
"But why  do I get  the feeling that when  I'm talking to him  my words are
bouncing off solid bone?"

"Mandorallen is  my knight,"  Ce'Nedra quickly came  to the defense  of her
champion. "He  doesn't need  to think. I'll  do his thinking  for him." She
stopped suddenly. "Oh dear,"  she said. "That sounds dreadful, doesn't it?"

King Rhodar  laughed. "You're  a treasure, Ce'Nedra," he  said fondly, "but
you do tend to blurt things out on occasion."

"Who are  those people?" Ce'Nedra asked,  curiously watching as Mandorallen
rode  to meet  the  couple who  had emerged  from the  gates of  Vo Mimbre.

"That's the  Baron of Vo Ebor," Durnik replied  quietly, "and his wife, the
Baroness Nerina. Mandorallen's in love with her."

"What?"

"It's all very proper," Durnik assured her quickly. "I didn't understand it
at first  myself, but I guess  it's the sort of  thing that happens here in
Arendia.  It's  a tragedy,  of  course.  All three  of  them are  suffering
terribly." The good man sighed.

"Oh dear," Ce'Nedra said, biting her lip. "I didn't know - and I've treated
him so badly at times."

"I'm sure  he'll forgive  you, princess," Durnik  told her. "He  has a very
great heart."

A short time later,  King Korodullin rode out from the city, accompanied by
Mandorallen and a score of armored knights. Ce'Nedra had met the young King
of Arendia  several years  before, and she  remembered him as  a pale, thin
young man  with a beautiful voice. On this occasion  he was dressed in full
armor and  a crimson surcoat. He  raised his visor as  he approached. "Your
Majesty," he  greeted her gravely,  "we have awaited thy  coming with great
anticipation."

"Your Majesty is too kind," Ce'Nedra replied.

"We  have marvelled  at  the stories  of thy  mobilization of  our Asturian
cousins," the  king told her. "Throe  oratory must be wondrously persuasive
to move them to lay aside their customary enmities."

"The day wears on,  your Majesty," King Rhodar observed. "Her Majesty would
like to address your knights - with your permission, of course. Once you've
heard   her,  I  think   you'll  understand   her  value  to   our  cause."

"At once,  your Majesty," Korodullin agreed.  He turned to one  of his men.
"Assemble the  knights and men-at-arms  of Mimbre that the  Rivan Queen may
disclose her mind to them," he commanded.

The army which had followed Ce'Nedra down through the plains of Arendia had
begun to  arrive and was flowing  down onto the plain  before the city in a
vast multitude.  Drawn up to meet that  force stood the glittering Mimbrate
knights. The air crackled with suspicion as the two groups eyed each other.

"I  think  we'd  better  move right  along,"  King  Cho-Hag suggested.  "An
accidental remark out there  could precipitate some unpleasantness we'd all
prefer to avoid."

Ce'Nedra had already begun to feel sick to her stomach. The feeling by now,
however, was so familiar that it no longer even worried her. A platform had
been erected  on a spot that  stood midway between Ce'Nedra's  army and the
armored knights  of King  Korodullin. The princess, accompanied  by all her
friends and the Mimbrate  honor guard, rode down to the platform, where she
nervously dismounted.

"Feel  free to speak  at length,  Ce'Nedra," Lady Polgara  quietly advised.
"Mimbrates dote  on ceremony and they're  as patient as stones  if you give
them something  formal to watch. It's about two  hours until sunset. Try to
time the climax of your speech to coincide with that."

Ce'Nedra gasped. "Two hours?"

"If you need longer, we can build bonfires," Durnik offered helpfully.

"Two hours ought to be about right," Lady Polgara surmised.

Ce'Nedra quickly began mentally revising her speech. "You'll make sure they
can all hear me?" she asked Polgara.

"I'll take care of it, dear."

Ce'Nedra drew in a  deep breath. "All right, then," she said, "here we go."
And she was helped up onto the platform.

It was  not pleasant. It never  was, but her weeks  of practice in northern
Arendia had  given her  the ability to  assess the mood  of a  crowd and to
adjust the pace of  her delivery accordingly. As Polgara had suggested, the
Mimbrates seemed  quite willing to listen  interminably. Moreover, standing
here on  the field at Vo  Mimbre gave her words  a certain dramatic impact.
Torak himself had stood  here, and the vast human sea of the Angarak hordes
had hurled  themselves from here  against the unyielding walls  of the city
gleaming at  the edge of the plain. Ce'Nedra  spoke, the words rolling from
her mouth as she delivered her impassioned address. Every eye was upon her,
and every ear was  bent to her words. Whatever sorcery Lady Polgara used to
make the Rivan Queen's  voice audible at the farthest edge of the crowd was
clearly  working. Ce'Nedra  could  see the  impact of  what she  was saying
rippling through  the hosts  before her like  a breeze touching  a field of
bending wheat.

And  then, as  the  sun hovered  in golden  clouds  just above  the western
horizon,  the  little  queen  moved into  the  climactic  crescendo of  her
oration.  The words  "pride," "honor,"  "courage," and  "duty" sang  in the
blood of her rapt  listeners. Her final question, "Who will follow me?" was
delivered just  as the setting sun bathed the  field with flaming light and
was answered with an  ear-splitting roar as the Mimbrate knights drew their
swords in salute.

Perspiring heavily  in her  sun-heated armor, Ce'Nedra, as  was her custom,
drew her  own sword in reply, leaped to her horse  and led her now enormous
army from the field.

"Stupendousl"  she heard  King  Korodullin marvel  as he  rode  behind her.

"Now you see why we follow her," King Anheg told him.

"She's  magnificent!"  King Korodullin  declared.  "Truly,  my Lords,  such
eloquence can  only be  a gift from  the Gods. I had  viewed our enterprise
with some trepidation - I confess it - but gladly would I challenge all the
hosts of  Angarak now. Heaven itself is with  this marvellous child, and we
cannot fail."

"I'll feel better after  I see how the legions respond to her," King Rhodar
observed. "They're  a pretty hard-bitten lot,  and I think it  might take a
bit more than a speech about patriotism to move them."

Ce'Nedra, however,  had already begun  to work on that.  She considered the
problem  from  every angle  as  she sat  alone  in her  tent that  evening,
brushing  her hair.  She needed  something to  stir her countrymen  and she
instinctively knew what it must be.

Quite  suddenly the  silver  amulet at  her  throat gave  a strange  little
quiver, something  it had never  done before. Ce'Nedra laid  down her brush
and touched her fingertips to the talisman.

"I know  you can  hear me, father,"  she heard Polgara say.  A sudden image
rose in  Ce'Nedra's mind  of Polgara, wrapped  in her blue  cloak, standing
atop a hill with the night breeze stirring her hair.

"Have  you  regained  your temper  yet?"  Belgarath's  voice sounded  wary.

"We'll  talk   about  that   some  other  time.   What  are  you   up  to?"

"At the  moment, I'm up to  my ears in drunk Nadraks.  We're in a tavern in
Yar Nadrak."

"I might have guessed. Is Garion all right?"

"Of course  he is. I'm not going to let anything  happen to him, Pol. Where
are you?"

"At Vo  Mimbre. We've raised the Arends, and we're  going on to Tolnedra in
the morning."

"Ran Borune won't like that much."

"We have a certain advantage. Ce'Nedra's leading the army."

"Ce'Nedra?" Belgarath sounded startled.

"It  seems  that was  what  the  passage in  the  Codex  meant. She's  been
preaching  the   Arends  out   of  the  trees   as  if  she   owned  them."

"What an amazing thing."

"Did you know that  the southern Murgos are already gathered at Rak Goska?"

"I've heard some rumors."

"It changes things, you know."

"Perhaps. Who's in charge of the army?"

"Rhodar."

"Good. Tell him to  avoid anything major as long as possible, Pol, but keep
the Angaraks off my back."

"We'll do  what we can." She seemed to hesitate for  a moment. "Are you all
right, father?" she asked carefully. The question seemed important for some
reason.

"Do you  mean am  I still in  full possession of my  faculties?" He sounded
amused. "Garion told me that you were worned about that."

"I told him not to say anything."

"By  the time  he  got around  to it,  the whole  question was  pretty much
academic."

"Are you-? I mean can you still?"

"Everything seems to work the same as always, Pol," he assured her.

"Give my love to Garion."

"Of  course. Don't  make  a habit  of this,  but  keep in  touch  with me."

"Very well, father."

The amulet  under Ce'Nedra's  fingers quivered again.  Then Polgara's voice
spoke  quite firmly. "All  right, Ce'Nedra,"  the sorceress said,  "you can
stop eavesdropping now."

Guiltily, Ce'Nedra jerked her fingers from the amulet.

The  next morning,  even before  the sun  came up,  she sent for  Barak and
Durnik.

"I'm going  to need  every scrap of  Angarak gold in the  entire army," she
announced to them. "Every  single coin. Buy it from the men if you have to,
but get me all the red gold you can lay your hands on."

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell us why," Barak said sourly. The big man
was surly about being pulled from his bed before daylight.

"I'm a Tolnedran," she informed him, "and I know my countrymen. I think I'm
going to need some bait."





Chapter Twenty-seven

RAN  BORUNE  XXIII, Emperor  of  Tolnedra,  was livid  with rage.  Ce'Nedra
noticed with  a certain pang that  her father had aged  considerably in the
year that  she had been absent  and she wished that  their meeting might be
more cordial than this one promised to be.

The Emperor  had drawn up his  legions on the plains  of northern Tolnedra,
and they faced Ce'Nedra's army as it emerged from the forest of Vordue. The
sun was  warm, and the crimson  standards of the legions,  rising from what
seemed  a vast  sea of  brightly burnished  steel, waved imposingly  in the
summer breeze. The massed legions had taken up positions along the crest of
a line of low  hills and they looked down at Ce'Nedra's sprawling army with
the tactical advantage of terrain in their favor.

King Rhodar quietly pointed  this out to the young queen as they dismounted
to meet  the Emperor. "We definitely don't  want to provoke anything here,"
he advised her. "Try your best to be polite at least."

"I know  what I'm  doing, your Majesty,"  she replied airily,  removing her
helmet and carefully smoothing her hair.

"Ce'Nedra," Rhodar  said bluntly, taking  her arm in a  firm grasp, "you've
been playing  this on your veins since the first day  we landed on the hook
of Arendia. You don't know from one minute to the next what you're going to
do.  I most  definitely  do not  propose  to attack  the Tolnedran  legions
uphill, so be civil  to your father or I'll take you over my knee and spank
you. Do you understand me?"

"Rhodar!"   Ce'Nedra   gasped.   "What    a   terrible   thing   to   say!"

"I  mean every  word," he told  her. "You  mind your manners,  young lady."

"Of  course I  will," she promised.  She gave  him a shy,  little-girl look
through fluttering eyelashes. "Do  you still love me, Rhodar?" she asked in
a tiny voice.

He  gave  her  a  helpless look,  and  then  she  patted  his broad  cheek.
"Everything  will be  just  fine, then,"  she assured  him. "Here  comes my
father."

"Ce'Nedra,"  Ran  Borune demanded  angrily,  striding to  meet them,  "just
exactly  what  do you  think  you're  doing?" The  Emperor  was dressed  in
gold-embossed  armor, and Ce'Nedra  thought he  looked rather silly  in it.

"Just passing  through, father," she replied  as inoffensively as possible.
"You've been well, I trust?"

"I was until you violated my borders. Where did you get the army?"

"Here and there, father."  She shrugged. "We really ought to talk, you know
- someplace private."

"I don't have anything to say to you," the bald-headed little man declared.
"I  refuse to  talk to  you until  you get  this army off  Tolnedran soil."

"Oh, father," she reprimanded him, "stop being so childish."

"Childish?" The Emperor exploded. "Childish!"

"Her Majesty perhaps chose  the wrong word," King Rhodar interposed, giving
Ce'Nedra a  hard look. "As we  all know, she tends at  times to be a trifle
undiplomatic."

"What are  you doing here,  Rhodar?" Ran Borune demanded.  He looked around
quickly  at  the  other  kings. "Why  have  the  Alorns invaded  Tolnedra?"

"We haven't invaded you, Ran Borune," Anheg told him. "If we had, the smoke
from burning towns and  villages would be rising behind us. You know how we
make war."

"What are you doing here, then?"

King Cho-Hag  answered in a calm voice. "As  her Majesty advised you, we're
only passing through on our way to the East."

"And exactly what do you plan to do in the East?"

"That's our business," Anheg told him bluntly.

"Try to be civil,"  Lady Polgara said to the Cherek king. She turned to the
Emperor. "My father and  I explained to you what was happening last summer,
Ran Borune. Weren't you listening?"

"That was  before you stole my daughter," he  retorted. "What have you done
to  her? She was  difficult before,  but now she's  absolutely impossible."

"Children  grow up,  your Majesty,"  Polgara replied  philosophically. "The
queen's point  was well-taken, however. We do need  to talk - preferably in
private."

"What queen are we talking about?" the Emperor asked bitingly. "I don't see
any queen here."

Ce'Nedra's  eyes hardened.  "Father,"  she snapped,  "you know  what's been
happening. Now stop playing  games and talk sense. This is very important."

"Your Highness  knows me well enough  to know that I  don't play games," he
told her in an icy tone.

"Your Majesty, " she corrected him.

"Your Highness, " he insisted.

"Your Majesty, " she repeated, her voice going up an octave.

"Your   Highness,    "   he   snarled   from    between   clenched   teeth.

"Do we really need to squabble like bad-tempered children right in front of
the armies?" Polgara asked calmly.

"She's right, you know," Rhodar said to Ran Borune. "We're all beginning to
look a  bit foolish  out here. We ought  to try to maintain  the fiction of
dignity at least."

The Emperor glanced involuntarily over one shoulder at the glittering ranks
of  his legions  drawn up  on the  hilltops not  far away. "Very  well," he
conceded grudgingly, "but I  want it clearly understood that the only thing
we're going to talk about is your withdrawal from Tolnedran soil. If you'll
follow me, we'll go to my pavilion."

"Which  stands right  in  the middle  of your  legions," King  Anheg added.
"Forgive me,  Ran Borune, but we're not that stupid. Why  don't we go to my
pavilion instead?"

"I'm   no   stupider  than   you   are,  Anheg,"   the  Emperor   retorted.

"If  I may,"  King Fulrach  said mildly.  "In the interests  of expediency,
might we  not assume that this spot is more or  less neutral?" He turned to
Brendig. "Colonel,  would you  be so good  as to have a  large tent erected
here?"

"At    once,   your    Majesty,"    the   sober-faced    Brendig   replied.

King Rhodar  grinned. "As  you can see,  the legendary practicality  of the
Sendars is not a myth."

The Emperor looked a  bit sour, but finally seemed to remember his manners.
"I  haven't seen you  in a long  time, Fulrach,"  he said. "I  hope Layla's
well."

"She  sends   her  regards,"   the  King  of   Sendaria  replied  politely.

"You've got good sense, Fulrach," the Emperor burst out. "Why have you lent
yourself to this insane adventure?"

"I think  that might be one  of the things we  ought to discuss in private,
don't you?" Polgara suggested smoothly.

"How's the squabble over the succession going?" Rhodar asked in the tone of
a man making small talk.

"It's still up in the air," Ran Borune responded, also in a neutral manner.
"The Honeths seem to be joining forces, though."

"That's unfortunate," Rhodar murmured. "The Honeths have a bad reputation."

Under  Colonel  Brendig's direction,  a  squad of  Sendarian soldiers  were
quickly erecting a large, bright-colored pavilion on the green turf not far
away.

"Did   you   deal   with    Duke   Kador,   father?"   Ce'Nedra   inquired.

"His  Grace found  his life  burdensome," Ran  Borune replied with  a short
laugh.  "Someone rather  carelessly  left some  poison lying  about  in his
prison  cell,  and  he  sampled it  extensively.  We  gave  him a  splendid
funeral."

Ce'Nedra smiled. "I'm so sorry I missed it."

"The pavilion is ready  now," King Fulrach told them. "Shall we go inside?"

They all entered and  sat at the table the soldiers had placed inside. Lord
Morin, the  Emperor's chamberlain, held Ce'Nedra's  chair for her. "How has
he   been?"    Ce'Nedra   whispered   to    the   brown-mantled   official.

"Not well, Princess," Morin replied. "Your absence grieved him more than he
cared to admit."

"Is he eating well - and getting his rest?"

"We  try, Highness."  Morin shrugged.  "But your  father's not  the easiest
person in the world to get along with."

"Do you have his medicine?"

"Naturally, Highness. I never go anywhere without it."

"Suppose  we get  down  to business,"  Rhodar was  saying. "Taur  Urgas has
sealed his western border, and the southern Murgos have moved into position
around Rak Goska. 'Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor, has set up a staging area
on the plains outside  Thull Zelik to receive his troops as he ferries them
in. We're running out of time, Ran Borune."

"I'm negotiating with Taur  Urgas," the Emperor replied, "and I'll dispatch
a plenipotentiary  to 'Zakath immediately. I'm  certain this can be settled
without a war."

"You can  talk to Taur Urgas  until your tongue falls  out," Anheg snorted,
"and 'Zakath  probably doesn't  even know or  care who you are.  As soon as
they've gathered their forces, they'll march. The war can't be avoided, and
I for one am  just as happy about that. Let's exterminate the Angaraks once
and for all."

"Isn't that just a bit uncivilized, Anheg?" Ran Borune asked him.

"Your Imperial Majesty," King Korodullin said formally, "the King of Cherek
speaks  hastily perhaps,  but there is  wisdom in  his words. Must  we live
forever under  the threat of invasion  from the East? Might  it not be best
forever to quell them?"

"All of  this is very interesting,"  Ce'Nedra interrupted them coolly, "but
it's really  beside the point. The  actual point at issue  here is that the
Rivan King has returned,  and Tolnedra is required by the provisions of the
Accords of Vo Mimbre to submit to his leadership."

"Perhaps,"  her father replied.  "But young  Belgarion seems to  be absent.
Have you  misplaced him somewhere? Or is it perhaps  that he still had pots
to scrub  in the  scullery at Riva  so that you  had to  leave him behind?"

"That's beneath  you, father,"  Ce'Nedra said scornfully.  "The Overlord of
the  West requires  your service. Are  you going  to shame the  Borunes and
Tolnedra by abrogating the Accords?"

"Oh,  no,  daughter,"  he  said,  holding  up one  hand.  "Tolnedra  always
meticulously observes  every clause of every  treaty she's ever signed. The
Accords require  me to  submit to Belgarion,  and I'll do  precisely that -
just   as  soon   as  he  comes   here  and   tells  me  what   he  wants."

"I am acting in his stead," Ce'Nedra announced.

"I  don't  seem  to  recall anything  that  states  that  the authority  is
transferable."

"I am  the Rivan Queen,"  Ce'Nedra retorted hotly, "and  I've been invested
with co-rulership by Belgarion himself."

"The wedding  must have been very private. I'm a  little hurt that I wasn't
invited."

"The wedding will take  place in due time, father. In the meantime, I speak
for Belgarion and for Riva."

"Speak  all you  want,  girl." He  shrugged.  "I'm not  obliged to  listen,
however. At  the moment, you're only  the betrothed of the  Rivan King. You
are not  his wife  and therefore not his  queen. If we want  to be strictly
legal  about it, until  such time as  you do  marry, you're still  under my
authority. Perhaps if you apologize and get out of that stupidlooking armor
and put on proper  clothing, I'll forgive you. Otherwise, I'll be forced to
punish you."

"Punish? Punish!"

"Don't scream at me, Ce'Nedra," the Emperor said hotly.

"Things seem  to be  deteriorating rapidly," Bank observed  dryly to Anheg.

"I noticed that," Anheg agreed.

"I am the Rivan Queen!" Ce'Nedra shouted at her father.

"You're a silly girl!" he shot back.

"That  does it,  father,"  she declared,  leaping  to her  feet. "You  will
deliver command  of your legions to  me at once, and  then you'll return to
Tol Honeth  where your servants can wrap you in  shawls and feed you gruel,
since  you're  obviously too  senile  to  be of  any  further  use to  me."

"Senile?" the  Emperor roared, also jumping up. "Get  out of my sightl Take
your stinking Alorn army  out of Tolnedra at once, or I'll order my legions
to throw you out."

Ce'Nedra,  however,  was already  storming  toward  the door  of the  tent.

"You come  back here!" he raged at her. "I  haven't finished talking to you
yet."

"Yes you have, father,"  she shouted back. "Now I'm going to talk. Barak, I
need that sack you  have tied to your saddle." She rushed from the tent and
climbed onto her horse, spluttering with apparent fury.

"Are you  sure you know what you're doing?" Barak asked  her as he tied the
sack of Angarak coins to her saddle.

"Perfectly," she replied in a calm voice.

Barak's eyes narrowed as  he looked at her. "You seem to have regained your
temper in a remarkably short time."

"I never lost it, Barak."

"You were acting in there?"

"Obviously. Well, at least  partially. It will take my father an hour or so
to regain  his composure, and by then it will be  too late. Tell Rhodar and
the others  to prepare the army  to march. The legions  will be joining us.

"What makes you think that?"

"I'm going to go  fetch them right now." She turned to Mandorallen, who had
just emerged from the  tent. "Where have you been?" she asked. "Come along.
I need an escort."

"Where are we going, pray?" the knight asked.

"You'll see," she told  him, and she turned her mount and rode at a trot up
the hillside  toward the  massed legions. Mandorallen  exchanged a helpless
look   with  Barak   and   then  clanged   into  his   saddle   to  follow.

Ce'Nedra, riding  ahead, carefully put her  fingertips to her amulet. "Lady
Polgara," she  whispered, "can  you hear me?"  She wasn't certain  that the
amulet  would  work that  way,  but she  had  to try.  "Lady Polgara,"  she
whispered again, a bit more urgently.

"What are  you doing,  Ce'Nedra?" Polgara's voice sounded  quite clearly in
the little queen's ears.

"I'm going  to talk to the legions," Ce'Nedra answered.  "Can you fix it so
they'll hear me?"

"Yes,  but  the  legions  won't  be  much  interested  in  a  speech  about
patriotism."

"I've got a different one," Ce'Nedra assured her.

"Your father's  having a fit in here. He's  actually foaming at the mouth."

Ce'Nedra sighed regretfully. "I  know," she said. "It happens fairly often.
Lord Morin  has the medicine with  him. Please try to  keep him from biting
his tongue."

"You   goaded  him   into   this  deliberately,   didn't  you,   Ce'Nedra?"

"I  needed time  to talk to  the legions,"  the princess replied.  "The fit
won't really  hurt him very much. He's had fits all  his life. He'll have a
nosebleed and a terrible  headache when it's over. Please take care of him,
Lady Polgara. I do love him, you know."

"I'll see what I  can do, but you and I are going to have a long talk about
this,   young  lady.   There   are  some   things  you   just   don't  do."

"I didn't have any choice, Lady Polgara. This is for Garion. Please do what
you have  to do so that  the legions can hear  me. It's awfully important."

"All right,  Ce'Nedra, but don't  do anything foolish." Then  the voice was
gone.

Ce'Nedra quickly  scanned the  standards drawn up before  her, selected the
familiar  emblem of  the Eighty-Third  Legion, and  rode toward it.  It was
necessary that  she place herself in  front of men who  would recognize her
and confirm her identity to the rest of her father's army. The Eighty-Third
was primarily a ceremonial  unit, and by tradition its barracks were inside
the Imperial  compound at Tol Honeth. It was  a select group, still limited
to the traditional thousand men, and it served primarily as a palace guard.
Ce'Nedra knew  every man in the Eighty-Third by sight,  and most of them by
name. Confidently, she approached them.

"Colonel Albor," she courteously greeted the commander of the Eighty-Third,
a  stout  man with  a florid  face  and a  touch  of gray  at his  temples.

"Your Highness,"  the colonel replied with  a respectful inclination of his
head. "We've missed you at the palace."

Ce'Nedra knew  that to be a  lie. The duty of  guarding her person had been
one  of the  common stakes in  barracks dice  games, with the  honor always
going to the loser.

"I need a small favor, colonel," she said to him as winsomely as she could.

"If   it's  in   my  power,   Highness,"  he   answered,  hedging   a  bit.

"I wish to address my father's legions," she explained, "and I want them to
know who I am." She smiled at him-warmly, insincerely. Albor was a Horbite,
and Ce'Nedra  privately detested  him. "Since the  Eighty-Third practically
raised me,"  she continued, "you of  all people should recognize  me and be
able to identify me."

"That's true, your Highness," Albor admitted.

"Do you suppose you  could send runners to the other legions to inform them
just who I am?"

"At once, your Highness,"  Albor agreed. He obviously saw nothing dangerous
in  her  request.  For  a  moment  Ce'Nedra  almost  felt  sorry  for  him.

The runners - trotters actually, since members of the Eighty-Third were not
very  athletic - began  to circulate  through the massed  legions. Ce'Nedra
chatted the  while with Colonel Albor  and his officers, though  she kept a
watchful eye on the tent where her father was recuperating from his seizure
and  also on the  gold-colored canopy  beneath which the  Tolnedran general
staff  was assembled.  She  definitely did  not want  some  curious officer
riding over to ask what she was doing.

Finally, when  she judged  that any further  delay might be  dangerous, she
politely excused herself. She  turned her horse and, with Mandorallen close
behind her, she rode  back out to a spot where she was certain she could be
seen.

"Sound your horn, Mandorallen," she told her knight.

"We are some distance  from our own forces, your Majesty," he reminded her.
"I pray  thee, be moderate in  throe address. Even I  might experience some
difficulty   in    facing   the   massed   legions    of   all   Tolnedra."

She smiled at him. "You know you can trust me, Mandorallen."

"With my  life, your Majesty," he replied and lifted  his horn to his lips.

As his  last ringing notes  faded, Ce'Nedra, her stomach  churning with the
now-familiar  nausea, rose  in her  stirrups to speak.  "Legionnaires," she
called to them. "I  am Princess Ce'Nedra, the daughter of your Emperor." It
wasn't  perhaps the  best  beginning in  the world,  but  she had  to start
somewhere,  and  this  was  going  to  be  something  in the  nature  of  a
performance,  rather than  an oration,  so a  bit of awkwardness  in places
wouldn't hurt anything.

"I have  come to set your  minds at rest," she  continued. "The army massed
before you  comes in peace.  This fair, green field,  this sacred Tolnedran
soil,  shall  not be  a  battleground  this day.  For  today  at least,  no
legionnaire   will   shed   his   blood   in  defense   of   the   Empire."

A  ripple  of relief  passed  through  the massed  legions.  No matter  how
professional  soldiers might be,  an avoided  battle was always  good news.
Ce'Nedra drew  in a deep, quivering  breath. It needed just  a little twist
now, something  to lead logically to what she  really wanted to say. "Today
you will  not be called upon  to die for your  brass half-crown." The brass
half crown  was the  legionnaire's standard daily pay.  "I cannot, however,
speak  for tomorrow,"  she went  on. "No  one can  say when the  affairs of
Empire will  demand that you lay  down your lives. It  may be tomorrow that
the  interests  of  some  powerful  merchant  may  need  legion  blood  for
protection." She  lifted her hands  in a rueful little  gesture. "But then,
that's the  way it's always been,  hasn't it? The legions  die for brass so
that others might have gold."

A cynical laugh of agreement greeted that remark. Ce'Nedra had heard enough
of the  idle talk of her father's soldiers to  know that this complaint was
at the  core of every legionnaire's view of  the world. "Blood and gold-our
blood and  their gold,"  was very nearly  a legion motto.  They were almost
with her  now. The quivering in  her stomach subsided a  bit, and her voice
became stronger.

She told them  a story then - a story she'd heard  in a half dozen versions
since her  childhood. It  was the story  of a good legionnaire  who did his
duty and  saved his money. His wife had  suffered through the hardships and
separations  that went  with being  married to  a legionnaire. When  he was
mustered out  of his legion, they  had gone home and  bought a little shop,
and all the years of sacrifice seemed worthwhile.

"And then one day, his wife became very ill," Ce'Nedra continued her story,
"and the physician's fee was very high." She had been carefully untying the
sack fastened  to her saddle while she  spoke. "The physician demanded this
much,"  she said,  taking  three blood-red  Murgo coins  from the  sack and
holding them  up for  all to see.  "And the legionnaire went  to a powerful
merchant and  borrowed the money  to pay the physician.  But the physician,
like most  of them, was a fraud, and the  legionnaire's money might as well
have been thrown away." Quite casually, Ce'Nedra tossed the gold coins into
the high grass behind  her. "The soldier's good and faithful wife died. And
when the legionnaire was  bowed down with grief, the powerful merchant came
to him  and said, `Where's the  money I lent to you?'  " She took out three
more coins  and held them up.  " 'Where's that good red  gold I gave you to
pay the physician?' But the legionnaire had no gold. His hands were empty."
Ce'Nedra spread  her fingers,  letting the gold  coins fall to  the ground.
"And so  the merchant took the  legionnaire's shop to pay  the debt. A rich
man grew  richer. And what happened to the  legionnaire? Well, he still had
his sword. He had  been a good soldier, so he had kept it bright and sharp.
And after  his wife's funeral, he took his sword and  went out into a field
not far from the  town and he fell upon it. And that's how the story ends."

She had them  now. She could see it in their faces.  The story she had told
them  had been  around  for a  long time,  but  the gold  coins she  had so
casually tossed away gave it an entirely new emphasis. She took out several
of the Angarak coins and looked at them curiously as if seeing them for the
first time.  "Why do  you suppose that  all the gold  we see  these days is
red?" she  asked them.  "I always thought  gold was supposed  to be yellow.
Where does all this red gold come from?"

"From Cthol Murgos," several of them answered her.

"Really?" She looked at  the coins with an apparent distaste. "What's Murgo
gold doing in Tolnedra?" And she threw the coins away.

The  iron  discipline  of  the  legions  wavered,  and  they  all  took  an
involuntary step forward.

"Of course,  I don't  suppose an ordinary  soldier sees much  red gold. Why
should a Murgo try to bribe a common soldier when he can bribe the officers
- or  the powerful men who  decide where and when the  legions are to go to
bleed and die?" She took out another coin and looked at it. "Do you know, I
think  that every  single one  of these  is from  Cthol Murgos,"  she said,
negligently throwing  the coin  away. "Do you  suppose that the  Murgos are
trying to buy up Tolnedra?"

There was an angry mutter at that.

"There must  be a  great deal of this  red gold lying about  in the Angarak
kingdoms if  that's what  they have in  mind, wouldn't you  say? I've heard
stories about  that, though. Don't they say that  the mines of Cthol Murgos
are bottomless  and that there are  rivers in Gar og  Nadrak that look like
streams of blood because the gravel over which they flow is pure gold? Why,
gold  must be  as cheap as  dirt in the  lands of  the East." She  took out
another coin, glanced at it and then tossed it away.

The legions took another  involuntary step forward. The officers barked the
command to stand fast,  but they also looked hungrily toward the tall grass
where the  princess had been so indifferently  throwing the red gold coins.

"It may be that the army I'm leading will be able to find out just how much
gold lies on the ground in the lands of the Angaraks," Ce'Nedra confided to
them. "The  Murgos and the Grolims  have been practicing this  same kind of
deceit in Arendia and  Sendaria and the Alorn kingdoms. We're on our way to
chastise them for it."  She stopped as if an idea had just occurred to her.
"There's always  room in any army for a few  more good soldiers," she mused
thoughtfully. "I know that  most legionnaires serve out of loyalty to their
legions and love for  Tolnedra, but there may be a few among you who aren't
satisfied  with one  brass half  crown a  day. I'm  sure such men  would be
welcome in my army." She took another red coin out of her dwindling supply.
"Would you believe that there's another Murgo gold piece?" she demanded and
let the coin drop from her fingers.

A  sound went  through  the massed  legions that  was  almost a  groan. The
princess  sighed  then. "I  forgot  something," she  said regretfully.  "My
army's leaving at once, and it takes weeks for a legionnaire to arrange for
leave, doesn't it?"

"Who needs leave?" someone shouted.

"You  wouldn't actually  desert your  legions, would  you?" she  asked them
incredulously.

"The princess  offers gold!" another  man roared. "Let Ran  Borune keep his
brass!"

Ce'Nedra dipped one last time into the bag and took out the last few coins.
"Would you  actually follow me?"  she asked in her  most little-girl voice,
"just  for  this?"  And  she  let  the  coins  trickle  out  of  her  hand.

The  Emperor's general  staff  at that  point  made a  fatal mistake.  They
dispatched a  platoon of cavalry to take  the princess into custody. Seeing
mounted men riding toward  the ground Ce'Nedra had so liberally strewn with
gold and  mistaking their intent, the  legions broke. Officers were swarmed
under and  trampled as Ran Borune's army lunged  forward to scramble in the
grass for the coins.

"I pray thee, your  Majesty," Mandorallen urged, drawing his sword, "let us
withdraw to safety."

"In a  moment, Sir Mandorallen," Ce'Nedra  replied quite calmly. She stared
directly  at the  desperately greedy  legionnaires running toward  her. "My
army marches immediately," she  announced. "If the Imperial Legions wish to
join us, I welcome them." And with that, she wheeled her horse and galloped
back toward her own forces with Mandorallen at her side.

Behind her  she heard the heavy  tread of thousands of  feet. Someone among
the massed legions began  a chant that soon spread. "Ce-Ne-dra! Ce-Ne-dra!"
they  shouted,   and  their   heavy  steps  marked  time   to  that  chant.

The Princess  Ce'Nedra, her  sun-touched hair streaming in  the wind behind
her, galloped on, leading the mass mutiny of the legions. Even as she rode,
Ce'Nedra knew  that her every word had been a  deception. There would be no
more  wealth for  these  legionnaires than  there  would be  glory or  easy
victory for the Arends she had gathered from the forests of Asturia and the
plains  of Mimbre.  She had  raised an  army to  lead into a  hopeless war.

It  was for  love of  Garion, however,  and perhaps  for even more.  If the
Prophecy that so controlled their destinies demanded this of her, there was
no way she could  have refused. Despite all the anguish that lay ahead, she
would have  done this  and more. For  the first time  Ce'Nedra accepted the
fact that  she no  longer controlled her own  destiny. Something infinitely
more powerful than she commanded her, and she must obey.

Polgara  and  Belgarath, with  lives  spanning eons,  could perhaps  devote
themselves to  an idea,  a concept; but  Ce'Nedra was barely  sixteen years
old, and  she needed something more  human to arouse her  devotion. At this
very  moment,  somewhere in  the  forests of  Gar  og Nadrak,  there was  a
sandy-haired young man with a serious face whose safety - whose very life -
depended on every effort she could muster. The princess surrendered finally
to love. She swore to herself that she would never fail her Garion. If this
army  were  not  enough,  she  would  raise  another -  at  whatever  cost.

Ce'Nedra sighed,  then squared her shoulders  and led the Tolnedran legions
across the sunny fields to swell the ranks of her army.





   Here ends Book Four of The Belgariad. Book Five, Enchanters' End Game,
   brings this epic to a brilliant conclusion as Belgarion confronts evil
                                   Torak
              to decide the fate of men, Gods, and Prophecies.














