Castle of Wizardry

22

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 announced, “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 betrothal 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, but 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.

23

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.

24

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.

25

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 gray-cloaked 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 all-consuming 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.

26

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 out!” 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.”

“I’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.

“Stupendous!” 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 worried 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.”

27

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 stupid-looking 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 sight! 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.