Queen of Sorcery

12

A brassy chorus of horns saluted them from the battlements of Vo Mimbre as they rode out of the city accompanied by twoscore armored knights and by King Korodullin himself. Garion glanced back once and thought he saw the Lady Nerina standing upon the wall above the arched gate, though he could not be sure. The lady did not wave, and Mandorallen did not look back. Garion, however, very nearly held his breath until Vo Mimbre was out of sight.

It was midafternoon by the time they reached the ford which crossed the River Arend into Tolnedra, and the bright sun sparkled on the river. The sky was very blue overhead, and the colored pennons on the lances of the escorting knights snapped in the breeze. Garion felt a desperate urgency, an almost unbearable necessity to cross the river and to leave Arendia and the terrible things that had happened there behind.

“Hail and farewell, Holy Belgarath,” Korodullin said at the water’s edge. “I will, as thou hast advised me, begin my preparations. Arendia will be ready. I pledge my life to it.”

“And I’ll keep you advised of our progress from time to time,” Mister Wolf said.

“I will also examine the activities of the Murgos within my kingdom,” Korodullin said. “If what thou hast told me should prove true, as I doubt not that it shall, then I will expell them from Arendia. I will seek them out, one and all, and harry them out of the land. I will make their lives a burden and an affliction to them for sowing discord and contention among my subjects.”

Wolf grinned at him. “That’s an idea that appeals to me. Murgos are an arrogant people, and a little affliction now and then teaches them humility.” He reached out and took the king’s hand. “Good-bye, Korodullin. I hope the world’s happier next time we meet.”

“I will pray that it may be so,” the young king said.

Then Mister Wolf led the way down into the rippling water of the shallow ford. Beyond the river Imperial Tolnedra waited, and from the banks behind them the Mimbrate knights saluted with a great fanfare on their horns.

As they emerged on the far side of the river, Garion looked around, trying to see some difference in terrain or foliage which might distinguish Arendia from Tolnedra, but there seemed to be none. The land, indifferent to human boundaries, flowed on unchanged.

About a half mile from the river they entered the forest of Vordue, an extensive tract of well-kept woodland which extended from the sea to the foothills of the mountains to the east. Once they were under the trees, they stopped and changed back into their traveling clothes.

“I think we might as well keep the guise of merchants,” Mister Wolf said, settling with obvious comfort back into his patched rust-colored tunic and mismatched shoes. “It won’t fool the Grolims, of course, but it will satisfy the Tolnedrans we meet along the way. We can deal with the Grolims in other ways.”

“Are there any signs of the Orb about?” Barak rumbled as he stowed his bearskin cloak and helmet in one of the packs.

“A hint or two,” Wolf said, looking around. “I’d guess that Zedar went through here a few weeks ago.”

“We don’t seem to be gaining on him much,” Silk said, pulling on his leather vest.

“We’re holding our own at least. Shall we go?”

They remounted and continued along the Tolnedran highway, which ran straight through the forest in the afternoon sun. After a league or so, they came to a wide place in the road where a single whitewashed stone building, low and red-roofed, stood solidly at the roadside. Several soldiers lounged indolently about, but their armor and equipment seemed less well-cared-for than that of the legionnaires Garion had seen before.

“Customs station,” Silk said. “Tolnedrans like to put them far enough from the border so that they don’t interfere with legitimate smuggling.”

“Those are very slovenly legionnaires,” Durnik said disapprovingly.

“They aren’t legionnaires,” Silk explained. “They’re soldiers of the customs service-local troops. There’s a great difference.”

“I can see that,” Durnik said.

A soldier wearing a rusty breastplate and carrying a short spear stepped into the road and held up his hand. “Customs inspection,” he announced in a bored tone. “His excellency will be with you in a moment or two. You can take your horses over there.” He pointed to a kind of yard at the side of the building.

“Is trouble likely?” Mandorallen asked. The knight had removed his armor and now wore the mail suit and surcoat in which he customarily traveled.

“No,” Silk said. “The customs agent will ask a few questions, and then we’ll bribe him and be on our way.”

“Bribe?” Durnik asked.

Silk shrugged. “Of course. That’s the way things are in Tolnedra. Better let me do the talking. I’ve been through all this before.”

The customs agent, a stout, balding man in a belted gown of a rusty brown color, came out of the stone building, brushing crumbs from the front of his clothes. “Good afternoon,” he said in a businesslike manner.

“Good day, your Excellency,” Silk replied with a brief bow.

“And what have we here?” the agent asked, looking appraisingly at the packs.

“I’m Radek of Boktor,” Silk replied, “a Drasnian merchant. I’m taking Sendarian wool to Tol Honeth.” He opened the top of one of the packs and pulled out a corner of woven gray cloth.

“Your prospects are good, worthy merchant,” the customs agent said, fingering the cloth. “It’s been a chilly winter this year, and wool’s bringing a good price.”

There was a brief clicking sound as several coins changed hands. The customs agent smiled then, and his manner grew more relaxed. “I don’t think we’ll need to open all the packs,” he said. “You’re obviously an honorable man, worthy Radek, and I wouldn’t want to delay you.”

Silk bowed again. “Is there anything I should know about the road ahead, your Excellency?” he asked, tying up the pack again. “I’ve learned to rely on the advice of the customs service.”

“The road’s good,” the agent said with a shrug. “The legions see to that.”

“Of course. Any unusual conditions anywhere?”

“It might be wise if you kept somewhat to yourselves on your way south,” the stout man advised. “There’s a certain amount of political turmoil in Tolnedra just now. I’m sure, though, that if you show that you’re tending strictly to business, you won’t be bothered.”

“Turmoil?” Silk asked, sounding a bit concerned. “I hadn’t heard about that.”

“It’s the succession. Things are a bit stirred up at the moment.”

“Is Ran Borune ill?” Silk asked with surprise.

“No,” the stout man said, “only old. It’s a disease no one recovers from. Since he doesn’t have a son to succeed him, the Borune Dynasty hangs on his feeblest breath. The great families are already maneuvering for position. It’s all terribly expensive of course, and we Tolnedrans get agitated when there’s money involved.”

Silk laughed briefly. “Don’t we all? Perhaps it might be to my advantage to make a few contacts in the right quarters. Which family would you guess is in the best position at the moment?”

“I think we have the edge over the rest of them,” the agent said rather smugly.

“We—”

“The Vorduvians. I’m distantly related on my mother’s side to the family. The Grand Duke Kador of Tol Vordue’s the only logical choice for the throne.”

“I don’t believe I know him,” Silk said.

“An excellent man,” the agent said expansively. “A man of force and vigor and foresight. If the selection were based on simple merit, Grand Duke Kador would be given the throne by general consent. Unfortunately, though, the selection’s in the hands of the Council of Advisers.”

“Ah!”

“Indeed,” the agent agreed bitterly. “You wouldn’t believe the size of the bribes some of those men are asking for their votes, worthy Radek.”

“It’s an opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime, I suppose,” Silk said.

“I don’t begrudge any man the right to a decent, reasonable bribe,” the stout agent complained, “but some of the men on the council have gone mad with greed. No matter what position I get in the new government, it’s going to take me years to recoup what I’ve already been obliged to contribute. It’s the same all over Tolnedra. Decent men are being driven to the wall by taxes and all these emergency subscriptions. You don’t dare let a list go by that doesn’t have your name on it, and there’s a new list out every day. The expense is making everyone desperate. They’re killing each other in the streets of Tol Honeth.”

“That bad?” Silk asked.

“Worse than you can imagine,” the customs man said. “The Horbites don’t have the kind of money it takes to conduct a political campaign, so they’ve started to poison off council members. We spend millions to buy a vote, and the next day our man turns black in the face and falls over dead. Then we have to raise more millions to buy up his successor. They’re absolutely destroying me. I don’t have the right kind of nerves for politics.”

“Terrible,” Silk sympathized.

“If Ran Borune would only die,” the Tolnedran complained desperately. “We’re in control now, but the Honeths are richer than we are. If they unite behind one candidate, they’ll be able to buy the throne right out from under us. And all the while Ran Borune sits in the palace doting on that little monster he calls a daughter and with so many guards around that we can’t persuade even the bravest assassin to make an attempt on him. Sometimes I think he intends to live forever.”

“Patience, Excellency,” Silk advised. “The more we suffer, the greater the rewards in the end.”

The Tolnedran sighed. “I’ll be very rich someday then. But I’ve kept you long enough, worthy Radek. I wish you good speed and cold weather in Tol Honeth to bring up the price of your wool.”

Silk bowed formally, remounted his horse and led the party at a trot away from the customs station. “It’s good to be back in Tolnedra again,” the weasel-faced little man said expansively once they were out of earshot. “I love the smell of deceit, corruption, and intrigue.”

“You’re a bad man, Silk,” Barak said. “This place is a cesspool.”

“Of course it is.” Silk laughed. “But it isn’t dull, Barak. Tolnedra’s never dull.”

They approached a tidy Tolnedran village as evening fell and stopped for the night in a solid, well-kept inn where the food was good and the beds were clean. They were up early the next morning; after breakfast they clattered out of the innyard and onto the cobblestoned street in that curious silver light that comes just before the sun rises.

“A proper sort of place,” Durnik said approvingly, looking around at the white stone houses with their red-tiled roofs. “Everything seems neat and orderly.”

“It’s a reflection of the Tolnedran mind,” Mister Wolf explained. “They pay great attention to details.”

“That’s not an unseemly trait,” Durnik observed.

Wolf was about to answer that when two brown-robed men ran out of a shadowy side street.

“Look out!” the one in the rear yelled. “He’s gone mad!”

The man running in front was clutching at his head, his face contorted into an expression of unspeakable horror. Garion’s horse shied violently as the madman ran directly at him, and Garion raised his right hand to try to push the bulging-eyed lunatic away. At the instant his hand touched the man’s forehead, he felt a surge in his hand and arm, a kind of tingling as if the arm were suddenly enormously strong, and his mind filled with a vast roaring. The madman’s eyes went blank, and he collapsed on the cobblestones as if Garion’s touch had been some colossal blow.

Then Barak nudged his horse between Garion and the fallen man.

“What’s this all about?” he demanded of the second robed man who ran up, gasping for breath.

“We’re from Mar Terrin,” the man answered. “Brother Obor couldn’t stand the ghosts anymore, so I was given permission to bring him home until his sanity returned.” He knelt over the fallen man. “You didn’t have to hit him so hard,” he accused.

“I didn’t,” Garion protested. “I only touched him. I think he fainted.”

“You must have hit him,” the monk said. “Look at the mark on his face.”

An ugly red welt stood on the unconscious man’s forehead.

“Garion,” Aunt Pol said, “can you do exactly what I tell you to do without asking any questions?”

Garion nodded. “I think so.”

“Get down off your horse. Go to the man on the ground and put the palm of your hand on his forehead. Then apologize to him for knocking him down.”

“Are you sure it’s safe, Polgara?” Barak asked.

“It will be all right. Do as I told you, Garion.”

Garion hesitantly approached the stricken man, reached out, and laid his palm on the ugly welt. “I’m sorry,” he said, “and I hope you get well soon.” There was a surge in his arm again, but quite different from the first one.

The madman’s eyes cleared, and he blinked.

“Where am I?” he asked. “What happened?” His voice sounded very normal, and the welt on his forehead was gone.

“It’s all right now,” Garion told him, not knowing exactly why he said it. “You’ve been sick, but you’re better now.”

“Come along, Garion,” Aunt Pol said. “His friend can care for him now.”

Garion went back to his horse, his thoughts churning.

“A miracle!” the second monk exclaimed.

“Hardly that,” Aunt Pol said. “The blow restored your friend’s mind, that’s all. It happens sometimes.” But she and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance that said quite plainly that something else had happened, something unexpected.

They rode on, leaving the two monks in the middle of the street.

“What happened?” Durnik asked, a stunned look on his face.

Mister Wolf shrugged. “Polgara had to use Garion,” he said. “There wasn’t time to do it any other way.”

Durnik looked unconvinced.

“We don’t do it often,” Wolf explained. “It’s a little cumbersome to go through someone else like that, but sometimes we don’t have any choice.”

“But Garion healed him,” Durnik objected.

“It has to come from the same hand as the blow, Durnik,” Aunt Pol said. “Please don’t ask so many questions.”

The dry awareness in Garion’s mind, however, refused to accept any of their explanations. It told him that nothing had come from outside. With a troubled face he studied the silvery mark on his palm. It seemed different for some reason.

“Don’t think about it, dear,” Aunt Pol said quietly as they left the village and rode south along the highway. “It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll explain it all later.” Then, to the caroling of birds that greeted the rising sun, she reached across and firmly closed his hand with her fingers.

13

It took them three days to pass through the forest of Vordue. Garion, remembering the dangers of the Arendish forest, was apprehensive at first and watched the shadows beneath the trees nervously, but after a day or so with nothing out of the ordinary occurring, he began to relax. Mister Wolf, however, seemed to grow increasingly irritable as they rode south. “They’re planning something,” he muttered. “I wish they’d get on with it. I hate to ride with one eye over my shoulder every step of the way.”

Garion had little opportunity along the way to speak with Aunt Pol about what had happened to the crazy monk from Mar Terrin. It seemed almost as if she were deliberately avoiding him; when he finally did manage to ride briefly beside her and question her about the incident, her answers were vague and did little to quiet his unease about the whole affair.

It was the middle of the morning on the third day when they emerged from the trees and rode out into open farmland. Unlike the Arendish plain where vast tracts of land seemed to lie fallow, the ground here was extensively cultivated, and low stone walls surrounded each field. Although it was still far from being warm, the sun was very bright, and the well-turned earth in the fields seemed rich and black as it lay waiting for sowing. The highway was broad and straight, and they encountered frequent travelers along the way. Greetings between the party and these travelers were restrained but polite, and Garion began to feel more at ease. This country appeared to be much too civilized for the kind of dangers they had encountered in Arendia.

About midafternoon they rode into a sizable town where merchants in variously colored mantles called to them from booths and stalls which lined the streets, imploring them to stop and look at merchandise.

“They sound almost desperate,” Durnik said.

“Tolnedrans hate to see a customer get away,” Silk told him. “They’re greedy.”

Ahead, in a small square, a disturbance suddenly broke out. A half dozen slovenly, unshaven soldiers had accosted an arrogant-looking man in a green mantle.

“Stand aside, I say,” the arrogant man protested sharply.

“We just want a word or two with you, Lembor,” one of the.soldiers said with an evil-looking leer. He was a lean man with a long scar down one side of his face.

“What an idiot,” a passer-by observed with a callous laugh. “Lembor’s gotten so important that he doesn’t think he has to take any precautions.”

“Is he being arrested, friend?” Durnik inquired politely.

“Only temporarily,” the passer-by said dryly.

“What are they going to do to him?” Durnik asked.

“The usual.”

“What’s the usual?”

“Watch and see. The fool should have known better than to come out without his bodyguards.”

The soldiers had surrounded the man in the green mantle, and two of them took hold of his arms roughly.

“Let me go,” Lembor protested. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just come along quietly, Lembor,” the scar-faced soldier ordered. “It will be a lot easier that way.” They began pulling him toward a narrow alleyway.

“Help!” Lembor shouted, desperately trying to struggle.

One of the soldiers smashed the captive in the mouth with his fist, and they pulled him into the alley. There was a single, short scream and the sounds of a brief scuffle. There were other sounds as well, a few grunts and the grating sound of steel on bone, then a long, sighing moan. A wide rivulet of bright blood trickled out of the mouth of the alley and ran into the gutter. A minute or so later, the soldiers came back out into the square, grinning and wiping their swords.

“We’ve got to do something,” Garion said, sick with outrage and horror.

“No,” Silk said bluntly. “What we have to do is mind our own business. We’re not here to get involved in local politics.”

“Politics?” Garion objected. “That was deliberate murder. Shouldn’t we at least see if he’s still alive?”

“Not too likely,” Barak said. “Six men with swords can usually do a pretty thorough job.”

A dozen other soldiers, as shabby-looking as the first group, ran into the square with drawn swords.

“Too late, Rabbas.” The scar-faced soldier laughed harshly to the leader of the newcomers. “Lembor doesn’t need you anymore. He just came down with a bad case of dead. It looks like you’re out of work.”

The one called Rabbas stopped, his expression dark. Then a look of brutal cunning spread across his face. “Maybe you’re right, Kragger.” His voice was also harsh. “But then again we might be able to create a few vacancies in Elgon’s garrison. I’m sure he’d be happy to hire good replacements.” He began to move forward again, his short sword swinging in a low, dangerous arc.

Then there came the sound of a jingling trot, and twenty legionnaires in a double column came into the square, their feet striking the cobblestones in unison. They carried short lances, and they stopped between the two groups of soldiers. Each column turned to face one group, their lances leveled. The breastplates of the legionnaires were brightly burnished, and their equipment was spotless.

“All right, Rabbas, Kragger, that’s enough,” the sergeant in charge said sharply. “I want both of you off the street immediately.”

“These swine killed Lembor, Sergeant,” Rabbas protested.

“That’s too bad,” the sergeant said without much sympathy. “Now clear the street. There’s not going to be any brawling while I’m on duty.”

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Rabbas demanded.

“I am,” the legionnaire said. “I’m clearing the street. Now get out of here.”

Sullenly, Rabbas turned and led his men out of the square.

“That goes for you too, Kragger,” the sergeant ordered.

“Of course, Sergeant,” Kragger said with an oily smirk. “We were just leaving anyway.”

A crowd had gathered, and there were several boos as the legionnaires herded the sloppy-looking soldiers out of the square.

The sergeant looked around, his face dangerous, and the boos died immediately.

Durnik hissed sharply. “Over there on the far side of the square,” he said to Wolf in a hoarse whisper. “Isn’t that Brill?”

“Again?” Wolf’s voice held exasperation. “How does he keep getting ahead of us like this?”

“Let’s find out what he’s up to,” Silk suggested, his eyes bright.

“He’d recognize any of us if we tried to follow him,” Barak warned.

“Leave that to me,” Silk said, sliding out of his saddle.

“Did he see us?” Garion asked.

“I don’t think so,” Durnik said. “He’s talking to those men over there. He isn’t looking this way.”

“There’s an inn near the south end of town,” Silk said quickly, pulling off his vest and tying it to his saddle. “I’ll meet you there in an hour or so.” Then the little man turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“Get down off your horses,” Mister Wolf ordered tersely. “We’ll lead them.”

They all dismounted and led their mounts slowly around the edge of the square, staying close to the buildings and keeping the animals between them and Brill as much as possible.

Garion glanced once up the narrow alleyway where Kragger and his men had dragged the protesting Lembor. He shuddered and looked away quickly. A green-mantled heap lay in a grimy corner, and there was blood splashed thickly on the walls and the filthy cobblestones in the alley.

After they had moved out of the square, they found the entire town seething with excitement and in some cases consternation. “Lembor, you say?” an ashen-faced merchant in a blue mantle exclaimed to another shaken man. “Impossible.”

“My brother just talked to a man who was there,” the second merchant said. “Forty of Elgon’s soldiers attacked him in the street and cut him down right in front of the crowd.”

“What’s going to happen to us?” the first man asked in a shaking voice.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to hide. Now that Lembor’s dead, Elgon’s soldiers are probably going to try to kill us all.”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“Who’s going to stop them? I’m going home.”

“Why did we listen to Lembor?” the first merchant wailed. “We could have stayed out of the whole business.”

“It’s too late now,” the second man said. “I’m going to go home and bar my doors.” He turned and scurried away.

The first man stared after him and then he too turned and fled.

“They play for keeps, don’t they?” Barak observed.

“Why do the legions allow it?” Mandorallen asked.

“The legions stay neutral in these affairs,” Wolf said. “It’s part of their oath.”

The inn to which Silk had directed them was a neat, square building surrounded by a low wall. They tied their horses in the courtyard and went inside. “We might as well eat, father,” Aunt Pol said, seating herself at a table of well-scrubbed oak in the sunny common room.

“I was just—” Wolf looked toward the door which led into the taproom.

“I know,” she said, “but I think we should eat first.”

Wolf sighed. “All right, Pol.”

The serving-man brought them a platter of smoking cutlets and heavy slabs of brown bread soaked in butter. Garion’s stomach was still a bit shaky after what he had witnessed in the square, but the smell of the cutlets soon overcame that. They had nearly finished eating when a shabby-looking little man in a linen shirt, leather apron and a ragged hat came in and plunked himself unceremoniously at the end of their table. His face looked vaguely familiar somehow. “Wine!” he bawled at the serving-man, “and food.” He squinted around in the golden light streaming through the yellow glass windows of the common room.

“There are other tables, friend,” Mandorallen said coldly.

“I like this one,” the stranger said. He peered at each of them in turn, and then he suddenly laughed. Garion stared in amazement as the man’s face relaxed, the muscles seeming to shift under his skin back into their normal positions. It was Silk.

“How did you do that?” Barak asked, startled.

Silk grinned at him and then reached up to massage his cheeks with his fingertips. “Concentration, Barak. Concentration and lots of practice. It makes my jaws ache a bit, though.”

“Useful skill, I’d imagine—under the right circumstances,” Hettar said blandly.

“Particularly for a spy,” Barak said.

Silk bowed mockingly.

“Where did you get the clothes?” Durnik asked,

“Stole them.” Silk shrugged, peeling off the apron.

“What’s Brill doing here?” Wolf asked.

“Stirring up trouble, the same as always,” Silk replied. “He’s telling people that a Murgo named Asharak is offering a reward for any information about us. He describes you quite well, old friend—not very flatteringly, but quite well.”

“I expect we’ll have to deal with this Asharak before long,” Aunt Pol said. “He’s beginning to irritate me.”

“There’s another thing.” Silk started on one of the cutlets. “Brill’s telling everyone that Garion is Asharak’s son—that we’ve stolen him and that Asharak’s offering a huge reward for his return.”

“Garion?” Aunt Pol asked sharply.

Silk nodded. “The kind of money he’s talking about is bound to make everyone in Tolnedra keep his eyes open.” He reached for a piece of bread.

Garion felt a sharp pang of anxiety.

“Why me?” he asked.

“It would delay us,” Wolf said. “Asharak-whoever he is—knows that Polgara would stop to look for you. So would the rest of us, most likely. That would give Zedar time to get away.”

“Just who is Asharak?” Hettar asked, his eyes narrowing.

“A Grolim, I expect,” Wolf said. “His operations are a little too widespread for him to be an ordinary Murgo.”

“How can one tell the difference?” Durnik asked.

“You can’t,” Wolf answered. “They look very much the same. They’re two separate tribes, but they’re much more closely related to each other than they are to other Angaraks. Anyone can tell the difference between a Nadrak and a Thull or a Thull and a Mallorean, but Murgos and Grolims are so much alike that you can’t tell them apart.”

“I’ve never had any problem,” Aunt Pol said. “Their minds are quite different.”

“That will make it much easier,” Barak commented dryly. “We’ll just chop open the head of the next Murgo we meet, and you can point out the differences to us.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Silk lately,” Aunt Pol said acidly. “You’re starting to talk like him.”

Barak looked over at Silk and winked.

“Let’s finish up here and see if we can’t get out of town quietly,” Wolf said. “Is there a back alley out of this place?” he asked Silk.

“Naturally,” Silk said, still eating.

“Are you familiar with it?”

“Please!” Silk looked a little offended. “Of course I’m familiar with it.

“Let it pass,” Wolf said.

The alleyway Silk led them through was narrow, deserted, and smelled quite bad, but it brought them to the town’s south gate, and they were soon on the highway again.

“A little distance wouldn’t hurt at this point,” Wolf said. He thumped his heels to his horse’s flanks and started off at a gallop. They rode until well after dark. The moon, looking swollen and unhealthy, rose slowly above the horizon and filled the night with a pale light that seemed to leech away all trace of color. Wolf finally pulled to a stop. “There’s really no point in riding all night,” he said. “Let’s move off the road and get a few hours’ sleep. We’ll start out again early. I’d like to stay ahead of Brill this time if we can.”

“Over there?” Durnik suggested, pointing at a small copse of trees looming black in the moonlight not far from the road.

“It will do,” Wolf decided. “I don’t think we’ll need a fire.” They led the horses in among the trees and pulled their blankets out of the packs. The moonlight filtered in among the trees and dappled the leaf strewn ground. Garion found a fairly level place with his feet, rolled up in his blankets and, after squirming around a bit, he fell asleep.

He awoke suddenly, his eyes dazzled by the light of a half dozen torches. A heavy foot was pushed down on his chest, and the point of a sword was set firmly, uncomfortably against his throat.

“Nobody move!” a harsh voice ordered. “We’ll kill anybody who moves.”

Garion stiffened in panic, and the sword point at his throat dug in sharply. He rolled his head from side to side and saw that all of his friends were being held down in the same way he was. Durnik, who had been standing guard, was held by two rough-looking soldiers, and a piece of rag was stuffed in his mouth.

“What does this mean?” Silk demanded of the soldiers.

“You’ll find out,” the one in charge rasped. “Get their weapons.” As he gestured, Garion saw that a finger was missing from his right hand.

“There’s a mistake here,” Silk said. “I’m Radek of Boktor, a merchant, and my friends and I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Get on your feet,” the three-fingered soldier ordered, ignoring the little man’s objections. “If any one of you tries to get away, we’ll kill all the rest.”

Silk rose and crammed on his cap. “You’re going to regret this, Captain,” he said. “I’ve got powerful friends here in Tolnedra.”

The soldier shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything to me,” he said. “I take my orders from Count Dravor. He told me to bring you in.”

“All right,” Silk said. “Let’s go see this Count Dravor, then. We’ll get this cleared up right now, and there’s no need for waving your swords around. We’ll come along quietly. None of us is going to do anything to get you excited.”

The three-fingered soldier’s face darkened in the torchlight. “I don’t like your tone, merchant.”

“You’re not being paid to like my tone, friend,” Silk said. “You’re being paid to escort us to Count Dravor. Now suppose we get moving. The quicker we get there, the quicker I can give him a full report about your behavior.”

“Get their horses,” the soldier growled.

Garion had edged over to Aunt Pol.

“Can’t you do anything?” he asked her quietly.

“No talking!” the soldier who had captured him barked.

Garion stood helplessly, staring at the sword leveled at his chest.

14

The house of Count Dravor was a large white building set in the center of a broad lawn with clipped hedges and formal gardens on either side. The moon, fully overhead now, illuminated every detail as they rode slowly up a white-graveled, curving road that led to the house.

The soldiers ordered them to dismount in the courtyard between the house and the garden on the west side of the house, and they were hustled inside and down a long hallway to a heavy, polished door.

Count Dravor was a thin, vague-looking man with deep pouches under his eyes, and he sprawled in a chair in the center of a richly furnished room. He looked up with a pleasant, almost dreamy smile on his face as they entered. His mantle was a pale rose color with silver trim at the hem and around the sleeves to indicate his rank. It was badly wrinkled and none too clean. “And who are these guests?” he asked, his voice slurred and barely audible.

“The prisoners, my Lord,” the three-fingered soldier explained. “The ones you ordered arrested.”

“Did I order someone arrested?” the count asked, his voice still slurred. “What a remarkable thing for me to do. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you, my friends.”

“We were a bit surprised, that’s all,” Silk said carefully.

“I wonder why I did that.” The count pondered. “I must have had a reason—I never do anything without a reason. What have you done wrong?”

“We haven’t done anything wrong, my Lord,” Silk assured him.

“Then why would I have you arrested? There must be some sort of mistake.”

“That’s what we thought, my Lord,” Silk said.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all cleared up,” the count said happily. “May I offer you some dinner, perhaps?”

“We’ve already eaten, my Lord.”

“Oh.” The count’s face fell with disappointment. “I have so few visitors.”

“Perhaps your steward Y’diss may remember the reason these people were detained, my Lord,” the three-fingered soldier suggested.

“Of course,” the count said. “Why didn’t I think of that? Y’diss remembers everything. Please send for him at once.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The soldier bowed and jerked his head curtly at one of his men.

Count Dravor dreamily began playing with one of the folds of his mantle, humming tunelessly as they waited.

After a few moments a door at the end of the room opened, and a man in an iridescent and intricately embroidered robe entered. His face was grossly sensual, and his head was shaved. “You sent for me, my Lord?” His rasping voice was almost a hiss.

“Ah, Y’diss,” Count Dravor said happily, “how good of you to join us.”

“It’s my pleasure to serve you, my Lord,” the steward said with a sinuous bow.

“I was wondering why I asked these friends to stop by,” the count said. “I seem to have forgotten. Do you by any chance recall?”

“It’s just a small matter, my Lord,” Y’diss answered. “I can easily handle it for you. You need your rest. You mustn’t overtire yourself, you know.”

The count passed a hand across his face. “Now that you mention it, I do feel a bit fatigued, Y’diss. Perhaps you could entertain our guests while I rest a bit.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Y’diss said with another bow.

The count shifted around in his chair and almost immediately fell asleep.

“The count is in delicate health,” Y’diss said with an oily smile. “He seldom leaves that chair these days. Let’s move away a bit so that we don’t disturb him.”

“I’m only a Drasnian merchant, your Eminence,” Silk said, “and these are my servants—except for my sister there. We’re baffled by all of this.”

Y’diss laughed. “Why do you persist in this absurd fiction, Prince Kheldar? I know who you are. I know you all, and I know your mission.”

“What’s your interest in us, Nyissan?” Mister Wolf asked bluntly.

“I serve my mistress, Eternal Salmissra,” Y’diss said.

“Has the Snake Woman become the pawn of the Grolims, then?” Aunt Pol asked, “or does she bow to the will of Zedar?”

“My queen bows to no man, Polgara,” Y’diss denied scornfully.

“Really?” She raised one eyebrow. “It’s curious to find her servant dancing to a Grolim tune.”

“I have no dealings with the Grolims,” Y’diss said. “They’re scouring all Tolnedra for you, but I’m the one who found you.”

“Finding isn’t keeping, Y’diss,” Mister Wolf stated quietly. “Suppose you tell us what this is all about.”

“I’ll tell you only what I feel like telling you, Belgarath.”

“I think that’s about enough, father,” Aunt Pol said. “We really don’t have time for Nyissan riddle games, do we?”

“Don’t do it, Polgara,” Y’diss warned. “I know all about your power. My soldiers will kill your friends if you so much as raise your hand.” Garion felt himself roughly grabbed from behind, and a sword blade was pressed firmly against his throat.

Aunt Pol’s eyes blazed suddenly. “You’re walking on dangerous ground!”

“I don’t think we need to exchange threats,” Mister Wolf said. “I gather, then, that you don’t intend to turn us over to the Grolims?”

“I’m not interested in the Grolims,” Y’diss said. “My queen has instructed me to deliver you to her in Sthiss Tor.”

“What’s Salmissra’s interest in this matter?” Wolf asked. “It doesn’t concern her.”

“I’ll let her explain that to you when you get to Sthiss Tor. In the meantime, there are a few things I’ll require you to tell me.”

“I think thou wilt have scant success in that,” Mandorallen said stiffly. “It is not our practice to discuss private matters with unwholesome strangers.”

“And I think you’re wrong, my dear Baron,” Y’diss replied with a cold smile. “The cellars of this house are deep, and what happens there can be most unpleasant. I have servants highly skilled in applying certain exquisitely persuasive torments.”

“I do not fear thy torments, Nyissan,” Mandorallen said contemptuously.

“No. I don’t imagine you do. Fear requires imagination, and you Arends aren’t bright enough to be imaginative. The torments, however, will wear down your will—and provide entertainment for my servants. Good torturers are hard to find, and they grow sullen if they aren’t allowed to practice—I’m sure you understand. Later, after you’ve all had the chance to visit with them a time or two, we’ll try something else. Nyissa abounds with roots and leaves and curious little berries with strange properties. Oddly enough, most men prefer the rack or the wheel to my little concoctions.” Y’diss laughed then, a brutal sound with no mirth in it. “We’ll discuss all this further after I have the count settled in for the night. For right now, the guards will take you downstairs to the places I’ve prepared for you all.”

Count Dravor roused himself and looked around dreamily. “Are our friends departing so soon?” he asked.

“Yes, my Lord,” Y’diss told him.

“Well then,” the count said with a vague smile, “farewell, dear people. I hope you’ll return someday so that we can continue our delightful conversation.”

The cell to which Garion was taken was dank and clammy, and it smelled of sewage and rotting food. Worst of all was the darkness. He huddled beside the iron door with the blackness pressing in on him palpably. From one corner of the cell came little scratchings and skittering sounds. He thought of rats and tried to stay as near to the door as possible. Water trickled somewhere, and his throat began to burn with thirst.

It was dark, but it was not silent. Chains clinked in a nearby cell, and someone was moaning. Further off, there was insane laughter, a meaningless cackle repeated over and over again without pause, endlessly rattling in the dark. Someone screamed, a piercing, shocking sound, and then again. Garion cringed back against the slimy stones of the wall, his imagination immediately manufacturing tortures to account for the agony in those screams.

Time in such a place was nonexistent, and so there was no way to know how long he had huddled in his cell, alone and afraid, before he began to hear a faint metallic scraping and clinking that seemed to come from the door itself. He scrambled away, stumbling across the uneven floor of his cell to the far wall.

“Go away!” he cried.

“Keep your voice down!” Silk whispered from the far side of the door.

“Is that you, Silk?” Garion almost sobbed with relief.

“Who were you expecting?”

“How did you get loose?”

“Don’t talk so much,” Silk said from between clenched teeth. “Accursed rust!” he swore. Then he grunted, and there was a grating click from the door. “There!” The cell door creaked open, and the dim light from torches somewhere filtered in. “Come along,” Silk whispered. “We have to hurry.”

Garion almost ran from the cell. Aunt Pol was waiting a few steps down the gloomy stone corridor. Without a word, Garion went to her. She looked at him gravely for a moment and then put her arms about him. They did not speak.

Silk was working on another door, his face gleaming with perspiration. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. Hettar stepped out. “What took you so long?” he asked Silk.

“Rust!” Silk snapped in a low voice. “I’d like to flog all the jailers in this place for letting the locks get into this condition.”

“Do you suppose we could hurry a bit?” Barak suggested over his shoulder from where he stood guard.

“Do you want to do this?” Silk demanded.

“Just move along as quickly as you can,” Aunt Pol said. “We don’t have the time for bickering just now.” She removed her blue cloak over one arm.

Silk grunted sourly and moved on to the next door.

“Is all this oratory actually necessary?” Mister Wolf, the last to be released, asked crisply as he stepped out of his cell. “You’ve all been babbling like a flock of geese out here.”

“Prince Kheldar felt need to make observations about the condition of the locks,” Mandorallen said lightly.

Silk scowled at him and led the way toward the end of the corridor where the torches fumed greasy onto the blackened ceiling.

“Have a care,” Mandorallen whispered urgently. “There’s a guard.”

A bearded man in a dirty leather jerkin sat on the floor with his back against the wall of the corridor, snoring.

“Can we get past without waking him up?” Durnik breathed.

“He isn’t going to wake up for several hours,” Barak said grimly. The large purple swelling on the side of the guard’s face immediately explained.

“Dost think there might be others?” Mandorallen asked, flexing his hands.

“There were a few,” Barak said. “They’re sleeping too.”

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Wolf suggested.

“We’ll take Y’diss with us, won’t we?” Aunt Pol asked.

“What for?”

“I’d like to talk with him,” she said. “At great length.”

“It would be a waste of time,” Wolf said. “Salmissra’s involved herself in this affair. That’s all we really need to know. Her motives don’t really interest me all that much. Let’s just get out of here as quietly as we can.”

They crept past the snoring guard, turned a corner and moved softly down another corridor.

“Did he die?” a voice, shockingly loud, asked from behind a barred door that emitted a smoky red light.

“No,” another voice said, “only fainted. You pulled too hard on the lever. You have to keep the pressure steady. Otherwise they faint, and you have to start over.”

“This is a lot harder than I thought,” the first voice complained.

“You’re doing fine,” the second voice said. “The rack’s always tricky. Just remember to keep a steady pressure and not to jerk the lever. They usually die if you pull their arms out of the sockets.”

Aunt Pol’s face went rigid, and her eyes blazed briefly. She made a small gesture and whispered something. A brief, hushed sound murmured in Garion’s mind.

“You know,” the first voice said rather faintly, “suddenly I don’t feel so good.”

“Now that you mention it, I don’t either,” the second voice agreed. “Did that meat we had for supper taste all right to you?”

“It seemed all right.” There was a long pause. “I really don’t feel good at all.”

They tiptoed past the barred door, and Garion carefully avoided looking in. At the end of the corridor was a stout oak door bound with iron. Silk ran his fingers around the handle. “It’s locked from the outside,” he said.

“Someone’s coming,” Hettar warned.

There was the tramp of heavy feet on the stone stairs beyond the door, the murmur of voices and a harsh laugh.

Wolf turned quickly to the door of a nearby cell. He touched his fingers to the rusty iron lock, and it clicked smoothly. “In here,” he whispered. They all crowded into the cell, and Wolf pulled the door shut behind them.

“When we’ve got some leisure, I’ll want to talk to you about that,” Silk said.

“You were having such a good time with the locks that I didn’t want to interfere.” Wolf smiled blandly. “Now listen. We’re going to have to deal with these men before they find out that our cells are empty and rouse the whole house.”

“We can do that,” Barak said confidently. They waited.

“They’re opening the door,” Durnik whispered.

“How many are there?” Mandorallen asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“Eight,” Aunt Pol said firmly.

“All right,” Barak decided. “We’ll let them pass and then jump on them from behind. A scream or two won’t matter much in a place like this, but let’s put them down quickly.”

They waited tensely in the darkness of the cell.

“Y’diss says it doesn’t matter if some of them die under the questioning,” one of the men outside said. “The only ones wee have to keep alive are the old man, the woman, and the boy.”

“Let’s kill the big one with the red whiskers then,” other suggested. “He looks like he might be troublesome, and he’s probably too stupid to know anything useful.”

“I want that one,” Barak whispered.

The men in the corridor passed their cell.

“Let’s go,” Barak said.

It was a short, ugly fight. They swarmed over the startled jailers in a savage rush. Three were down before the others fully realized what was happening. One made a startled outcry, dodged past the fight and ran back toward the stairs. Without thinking, Garion dove in front of the running man. Then he rolled, tangling the man’s feet, tripping him up. The guard fell, started to rise, then sagged back down in a limp heap as Silk neatly kicked him just below the ear.

“Are you all right?” Silk asked.

Garion squirmed out from under the unconscious jailer and scrambled to his feet, but the fight was nearly over. Durnik was pounding a stout man’s head against the wall, and Barak was driving his fist into another’s face. Mandorallen was strangling a third, and Hettar stalked a fourth, his hands out. The wide-eyed man cried out once just as Hettar’s hands closed on him. The tall Algar straightened, spun about and slammed the man into the stone wall with terrific force. There was the grating sound of bones breaking, and the man went limp.

“Nice little fight,” Barak said, rubbing his knuckles.

“Entertaining,” Hettar agreed, letting the limp body slide to the floor.

“Are you about through?” Silk demanded hoarsely from the door by the stairs.

“Almost,” Barak said. “Need any help, Durnik?”

Durnik lifted the stout man’s chin and examined the vacant eyes critically. Then he prudently banged the jailer’s head against the wall once more and let him fall.

“Shall we go?” Hettar suggested.

“Might as well,” Barak agreed, surveying the littered corridor.

“The door’s unlocked at the top of the stairs,” Silk said as they joined him, “and the hallway’s empty beyond it. The house seems to be asleep, but let’s be quiet.”

They followed him silently up the stairs. He paused briefly at the door. “Wait here a moment,” he whispered. Then he disappeared, his feet making absolutely no sound. After what seemed a long time, he returned with the weapons the soldiers had taken from them. “I thought we might need these.”

Garion felt much better after he had belted on his sword.

“Let’s go,” Silk said and led them to the end of the hall and around a corner.

“I think I’d like some of the green, Y’diss,” Count Dravor’s voice came from behind a partially open door.

“Certainly, my Lord,” Y’diss said in his sibilant, rasping voice. “The green tastes bad,” Count Dravor said drowsily, “but it gives me such lovely dreams. The red tastes better, but the dreams aren’t so nice.”

“Soon you’ll be ready for the blue, my Lord,” Y’diss promised. There was a faint clink and the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. “Then the yellow, and finally the black. The black’s best of all.”

Silk led them on tiptoe past the half open door. The lock on the outside door yielded quickly to his skill, and they all slipped out into the cool, moonlit night. The stars twinkled overhead, and the air was sweet. “I’ll get the horses,” Hettar said.

“Go with him, Mandorallen,” Wolf said. “We’ll wait over there.” He pointed at the shadowy garden. The two men disappeared around the corner, and the rest of them followed Mister Wolf into the looming shadow of the hedge which surrounded Count Dravor’s garden.

They waited. The night was chilly, and Garion found himself shivering. Then there was a click of a hoof touching a stone, and Hettar and Mandorallen came back, leading the horses.

“We’d better hurry,” Wolf said. “As soon as Dravor drops off to sleep, Y’diss is going to go down to his dungeon and find out that we’ve left. Lead the horses. Let’s get away from the house before we start making any noise.”

They went down through the moonlit garden with the horses trailing along after them until they emerged on the open lawn beyond. They mounted carefully.

“We’d better hurry,” Aunt Pol suggested, glancing back at the house.

“I bought us a little time before I left,” Silk said with a short laugh.

“How’d you manage that?” Barak asked.

“When I went to get our weapons, I also set fire to the kitchen.” Silk smirked. “That will keep their attention for a bit.”

A tendril of smoke rose from the back of the house.

“Very clever,” Aunt Pol said with a certain grudging admiration.

“Why thank you, my Lady.” Silk made a mocking little bow. Mister Wolf chuckled and led them away at an easy trot.

The tendril of smoke at the back of the house became thicker as they rode away, rising black and oily toward the uncaring stars.

15

They rode hard for the next several days, stopping only long enough to rest the horses and catch a few hours’ sleep at infrequent intervals. Garion found that he could doze in his saddle whenever they walked the horses. He found, indeed, that if he were tired enough, he could sleep almost anyplace. One afternoon as they rested from the driving pace Wolf set, he heard Silk talking to the old man and Aunt Pol. Curiosity finally won out over exhaustion, and he roused himself enough to listen.

“I’d still like to know more about Salmissra’s involvement in this,” the little man was saying.

“She’s an opportunist,” Wolf said. “Any time there’s turmoil, she tries to turn it to her own advantage.”

“That means we’ll have to dodge Nyissans as well as Murgos.” Garion opened his eyes. “Why do they call her Eternal Salmissra?” he asked Aunt Pol. “Is she very old?”

“No,” Aunt Pol answered. “The Queens of Nyissa are always named Salmissra, that’s all.”

“Do you know this particular one?”

“I don’t have to,” she told him. “They’re always exactly the same. They all look alike and act alike. If you know one, you know them all.”

“She’s going to be terribly disappointed with Y’diss,” Silk observed, grinning.

“I imagine that Y’diss has taken some quiet, painless way out by now,” Wolf said. “Salmissra grows a bit excessive when she’s irritated.”

“Is she so cruel then?” Garion asked.

“Not cruel exactly,” Wolf explained. “Nyissans admire serpents. If you annoy a snake, he’ll bite you. He’s a simple creature, but very logical. Once he bites you, he doesn’t hold any further grudges.”

“Do we have to talk about snakes?” Silk asked in a pained voice.

“I think the horses are rested now,” Hettar said from behind them. “We can go now.”

They pushed the horses back into a gallop and pounded south toward the broad valley of the Nedrane River and Tol Honeth. The sun turned warm, and the trees along the way were budding in the first days of spring,

The gleaming Imperial City was situated on an island in the middle of the river, and all roads led there. It was clearly visible in the distance as they crested the last ridge and looked down into the fertile valley and it seemed to grow larger with each passing mile as they approached it. It was built entirely of white marble and it dazzled the eye in the midmorning sun. The walls were high and thick, and towers soared above them within the city.

A bridge arched gracefully across the rippled face of the Nedrane to the bronze expanse of the north gate where a glittering detachment of legionnaires marched perpetual guard.

Silk pulled on his conservative cloak and cap and drew himself up, his face assuming that sober, businesslike expression that meant that he was undergoing a private internal transition that seemed to make him almost believe himself that he was the Drasnian merchant whose identity he assumed.

“Your business in Tol Honeth?” one of the legionnaires asked politely. “I am Radek of Boktor,” Silk said with the preoccupied air of a man whose mind was on business. “I have Sendarian woolens of the finest quality.”

“You’ll probably want to talk with the Steward of the Central Market, then,” the legionnaire suggested.

“Thank you.” Silk nodded and led them through the gate into the broad and crowded streets beyond.

“I think I’d better stop by the palace and have a talk with Ran Borune,” Mister Wolf said. “The Borunes aren’t the easiest emperors to deal with, but they’re the most intelligent. I shouldn’t have too much trouble convincing him that the situation’s serious.”

“How are you going to get to see him?” Aunt Pol asked him. “It could take weeks to get an appointment. You know how they are.”

Mister Wolf made a sour face. “I suppose I could make a ceremonial visit of it,” he said as they pushed their horses through the crowd.

“And announce your presence to the whole city?”

“Do I have any choice? I have to nail down the Tolnedrans. We can’t afford to have them neutral.”

“Could I make a suggestion?” Barak asked.

“I’ll listen to anything at this point.”

“Why don’t we go see Grinneg?” Barak said. “He’s the Cherek Ambassador here in Tol Honeth. He could get us into the palace to see the Emperor without all that much fuss.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Belgarath,” Silk agreed. “Grinneg’s got enough connections in the palace to get us inside quickly, and Ran Borune respects him.”

“That only leaves the problem of getting in to see the ambassador,” Durnik said as they stopped to let a heavy wagon pass into a side street.

“He’s my cousin,” Barak said. “He and Anheg and I used to play together when we were children.” The big man looked around. “He’s supposed to have a house near the garrison of the Third Imperial Legion. I suppose we could ask somebody the way.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Silk said. “I know where it is.”

“I should have known.” Barak grinned.

“We can go through the north marketplace,” Silk said. “The garrison’s located near the main wharves on the downstream end of the island.”

“Lead the way,” Wolf told him. “I don’t want to waste too much time here.”

The streets of Tol Honeth teemed with people from all over the world. Drasnians and Rivans rubbed elbows with Nyissans and Thulls. There was a sprinkling of Nadraks in the crowd and, to Garion’s eye, a disproportionate number of Murgos. Aunt Pol rode close beside Hettar, talking quietly to him and frequently laying her hand lightly on his sword arm. The lean Algar’s eyes burned, and his nostrils flared dangerously each time he saw a scarred Murgo face.

The houses along the wide streets were imposing, with white marble facades and heavy doors, quite often guarded by private mercenary soldiers, who glared belligerently at passers-by.

“The Imperial City seems awash with suspicion,” Mandorallen observed. “Do they fear their neighbors so?”

“Troubled times,” Silk explained. “And the merchant princes of Tol Honeth keep a great deal of the world’s wealth in their counting-rooms. There are men along this street who could buy most of Arendia if they wanted to.”

“Arendia is not for sale,” Mandorallen said stiffly.

“In Tol Honeth, my dear Baron, everything’s for sale,” Silk told him. “Honor, virtue, friendship, love. It’s a wicked city full of wicked people, and money’s the only thing that matters.”

“I expect you fit right in, then,” Barak said.

Silk laughed. “I like Tol Honeth,” he admitted. “The people here have no illusions. They’re refreshingly corrupt.”

“You’re a bad fan, Silk,” Barak stated bluntly.

“So you’ve said before,” the rat-faced little Drasnian said with a mocking grin.

The banner of Cherek, the outline of a white war-boat on an azure background, fluttered from a pole surmounting the gate of the ambassador’s house. Barak dismounted a bit stiffly and strode to the iron grill which blocked the gate. “Tell Grinneg that his cousin Barak is here to see him,” he announced to the bearded guards inside.

“How do we know you’re his cousin?” one of the guards demanded roughly.

Barak reached through the grill almost casually and took hold of the front of the guard’s mail shirt. He pulled the man up firmly against the barn. “Would you like to rephrase that question,” he asked, “while you still have your health?”

“Excuse me, Lord Barak,” the man apologized quickly. “Now that I’m closer, I do seem to recognize your face.”

“I was almost sure you would,” Barak said.

“Let me unlock the gate for you,” the guard suggested.

“Excellent idea,” Barak said, letting go of the man’s shirt. The guard opened the gate quickly, and the party rode into a spacious courtyard.

Grinneg, the ambassador of King Anheg to the Imperial Court at Tol Honeth, was a burly man almost as big as Barak. His beard was trimmed very short, and he wore a Tolnedran-style blue mantle. He came down the stairs two at a time and caught Barak in a vast bear hug. “You pirate!” he roared. “What are you doing in Tol Honeth?”

“Anheg’s decided to invade the place,” Barak joked. “As soon as we’ve rounded up all the gold and young women, we’re going to let you burn the city.”

Grinneg’s eyes glittered with a momentary hunger. “Wouldn’t that infuriate them?” he said with a vicious grin.

“What happened to your beard?” Barak asked.

Grinneg coughed and looked embarrassed. “It’s not important,” he said quickly.

“We’ve never had any secrets,” Barak accused.

Grinneg spoke quietly to his cousin for a moment, looking very ashamed of himself, and Barak burst out with a great roar of laughter. “Why did you let her do that?” he demanded.

“I was drunk,” Grinneg said. “Let’s go inside. I’ve got a keg of good ale in my cellar.”

The rest of them followed the two big men into the house, and they went down a broad hallway to a room with Cherek furnishings—heavy chairs and benches covered with skins, a rush-strewn floor and a huge fireplace where the butt end of a large log smoldered. Several pitchsmeared torches smoked in iron rings on the stone wall.

“I feel more at home here,” Grinneg said.

A servant brought tankards of dark brown ale for them all and then quietly left the room. Garion quickly lifted his tankard and took a large swallow of the bitter drink before Aunt Pol could suggest something more bland. She watched him without comment, her eyes expressionless.

Grinneg sprawled in a large, hand-hewn chair with a bearskin tossed over it. “Why are you really in Tol Honeth, Barak?” he asked.

“Grinneg,” Barak said seriously, “this is Belgarath. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

The ambassador’s eyes widened, and he inclined his head. “My house is yours,” he said respectfully.

“Can you get me in to see Ran Borune?” Mister Wolf asked, sitting on a rough bench near the fireplace.

“Without any difficulty.”

“Good,” Wolf said. “I have to talk to him, and I don’t want to stir up any fuss in the process.”

Barak introduced the others, and his cousin nodded politely to each of them.

“You’ve come to Tol Honeth during a turbulent period,” he said after the amenities were over. “The nobility of Tolnedra are gathering in the city like ravens on a dead cow.”

“We picked up a hint or two of that on our way south,” Silk told him. “Is it as bad as we heard?”

“Probably worse,” Grinneg said, scratching one ear. “Dynastic succession only happens a few times in each eon. The Borunes have been in power now for over six hundred years, and the other houses are anticipating the changeover with a great deal of enthusiasm.”

“Who’s the most likely to succeed Ran Borune?” Mister Wolf asked.

“Right at the moment the best would probably be the Grand Duke Kador of Tol Vordue,” Grinneg answered. “He seems to have more money than the rest. The Honeths are richer, of course, but they’ve got seven candidates, and their wealth is spread out a little too thin. The other families aren’t really in the running. The Borunes don’t have anyone suitable, and no one takes the Ranites seriously.”

Garion carefully set his tankard on the floor beside the stool he sat on. The bitter ale didn’t really taste that good, and he felt vaguely cheated somehow. The half tankard he had drunk made his ears quite warm, though, and the end of his nose seemed a little numb.

“A Vorduvian we met said that the Horbites are using poison,” Silk said.

“They all are.” Grinneg wore a slightly disgusted look. “The Horbites are just a little more obvious about it, that’s all. If Ran Borune dies tomorrow, though, Kador will be the next Emperor.”

Mister Wolf frowned. “I’ve never had much success dealing with the Vorduvians. They don’t really have imperial stature.”

“The old Emperor’s still in pretty fair health,” Grinneg said. “If he hangs on for another year or two, the Honeths will probably fall into line behind one candidate—whichever one survives—and then they’ll be able to bring all their money to bear on the situation. These things take time, though. The candidates themselves are staying out of town for the most part, and they’re all being extremely careful, so the assassins are having a great deal of difficulty reaching them.” He laughed, taking a long drink of ale. “They’re a funny people.”

“Could we go to the palace now?” Mister Wolf asked.

“We’ll want to change clothes first,” Aunt Pol said firmly.

“Again, Polgara?” Wolf gave her a long-suffering look.

“Just do it, father,” she said. “I won’t let you embarrass us by wearing rags to the palace.”

“I’m not going to wear that robe again.” The old man’s voice was stubborn.

“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t be suitable. I’m sure the ambassador can lend you a mantle. You won’t be quite so obvious that way.”

“Whatever you say, Pol.” Wolf sighed, giving up.

After they had changed, Grinneg formed up his honorguard, a grim-looking group of Cherek warriors, and they were escorted along the broad avenues of Tol Honeth toward the palace. Garion, all bemused by the opulence of the city and feeling just a trifle giddy from the effects of the half tankard of ale he had drunk, rode quietly beside Silk, trying not to gawk at the huge buildings or the richly dressed Tolnedrans strolling with grave decorum in the noonday sun.

16

The imperial palace sat on a high hill in the center of Tol Honeth. It consisted not of one building, but rather was a complex of many, large and small, all built of marble and surrounded by gardens and lawns where cypress trees cast a pleasing shade. The entire compound was enclosed by a high wall, surmounted by statues spaced at intervals along its top. The legionnaires at the palace gate recognized the Cherek ambassador and sent immediately for one of the Emperor’s chamberlains, a gray-haired official in a brown mantle.

“I need to see Ran Borune, Lord Morin,” Grinneg told him as they all dismounted in a marble courtyard just inside the palace gate. “It’s a matter of urgency.”

“Of course, Lord Grinneg,” the gray-haired man assented. “His Imperial Highness is always delighted to speak with the personal envoy of King Anheg. Unfortunately, his Highness is resting just now. I should be able to get you in to see him sometime this afternoon—tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“This won’t wait, Morin,” Grinneg said. “We have to see the Emperor immediately. You’d better go wake him up.”

Lord Morin looked surprised. “It can’t be that urgent,” he suggested chillingly.

“I’m afraid so,” Grinneg said.

Morin pursed his lips thoughtfully as he looked at each member of the party.

“You know me well enough to realize that I wouldn’t ask this lightly, Morin,” Grinneg said.

Morin sighed. “I’m trusting you a great deal, Grinneg. All right. Come along. Ask your soldiers to wait.”

Grinneg made a curt gesture to his guards, and the party followed Lord Morin through a broad courtyard to a columned gallery that ran along one of the buildings.

“How’s he been?” Grinneg asked as they walked along the shady gallery.

“His health is still good,” Morin answered, “but his temper’s been deteriorating lately. The Borunes have been resigning their posts in flocks and returning to Tol Borune.”

“That seems prudent under the circumstances,” Grinneg said. “I suspect that a certain number of fatalities are likely to accompany the succession.”

“Probably so,” Morin agreed, “but his Highness finds it a bit distressing to be abandoned by members of his own family.” He stopped by an arched marble gate where two legionnaires in gold-embellished breastplates stood stiffly. “Please leave your weapons here. His Highness is sensitive about such things—I’m sure you can understand.”

“Of course,” Grinneg said, pulling a heavy sword out from under his mantle and leaning it against the wall.

They all followed his example, and Lord Morin’s eyes flickered slightly with surprise when Silk removed three different daggers from various places beneath his garments. Formidable eguipment—the chamberlain’s hands flickered in the gestures of the secret language.

—Troubled times-Silk’s fingers explained deprecatingly.

Lord Morin smiled faintly and led them through the gate into the garden beyond. The lawn in the garden was neatly manicured. There were softly splashing fountains, and the rosebushes were all well-pruned. Fruit trees that seemed to be very old were budding, almost ready to burst into bloom in the warm sun. Sparrows bickered over nesting sites on the twisted limbs. Grinneg and the others followed Morin along a curving marble walk toward the center of the garden.

Ran Borune XXIII, Emperor of Tolnedra, was a small, elderly man, quite bald and dressed in a gold-colored mantle. He lounged in a heavy chair beneath a budding grape arbor, feeding small seeds to a bright canary perched on the arm of his chair. The Emperor had a little, beaklike nose and bright, inquisitive eyes. “I said I wanted to be left alone, Morin,” he said in a testy voice, looking up from the canary.

“A million apologies, your Highness,” Lord Morin explained, bowing deeply. “Lord Grinneg, the ambassador of Cherek, wishes to present you a matter of gravest urgency. He convinced me that it simply could not wait.”

The Emperor looked sharply at Grinneg. His eyes grew sly, almost malicious. “I see that your beard’s beginning to grow back, Grinneg.”

Grinneg’s face flushed slowly. “I should have known that your Highness would have heard of my little misfortune.”

“I know everything that happens in Tol Honeth, Lord Grinneg,” the Emperor snapped. “Even if all my cousins and nephews are running like rats out of a burning house, I still have a few faithful people around me. Whatever possessed you to take up with that Nadrak woman? I thought you Alorns despised Angaraks.”

Grinneg coughed awkwardly and glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. “It was a kind of joke, your Highness,” he said. “I thought it might embarrass the Nadrak ambassador—and his wife is, after all, a handsome-looking woman. I didn’t know she kept a pair of scissors under her bed.”

“She keeps your beard in a little gold box, you know.” The emperor smirked. “And she shows it to all her friends.”

“She’s an evil woman,” Grinneg said mournfully.

“Who are these?” the Emperor asked, waving one finger at the members of the party standing on the grass somewhat behind Ambassador Grinneg.

“My cousin Barak and some friends,” Grinneg said. “They’re the ones who have to talk to you.”

“The Earl of Trellheim?” the Emperor asked. “What are you doing in Tol Honeth, my Lord?”

“Passing through, your Highness,” Barak replied, bowing.

Ran Borune looked sharply at each of the rest in turn as if actually seeing them for the first time. “And this would be Prince Kheldar of Drasnia,” he said, “who left Tol Honeth in a hurry last time he was here—posing as an acrobat in a traveling circus, I believe, and about one jump ahead of the police.”

Silk also bowed politely.

“And Hettar of Algaria,” the Emperor continued, “the man who’s trying to depopulate Cthol Murgos single-handedly.”

Hettar inclined his head.

“Morin,” the Emperor demanded sharply, “why have you surrounded me with Alorns? I don’t like Alorns.”

“It’s this matter of urgency, your Highness,” Morin replied apologetically.

“And an Arend?” the Emperor said, looking at Mandorallen. “A Mimbrate, I should say.” His eyes narrowed. “From the descriptions I’ve heard, he could only be the Baron of Vo Mandor.”

Mandorallen’s bow was gracefully elaborate. “Throe eye is most keen, your Highness, to have read us each in turn without prompting.”

“Not all of you precisely,” the Emperor said. “I don’t recognize the Sendar or the Rivan lad.”

Garion’s mind jumped. Barak had once told him that he resembled a Rivan more than anything else, but that thought had been lost in the welter of events which had followed the chance remark. Now the Emperor of Tolnedra, whose eye seemed to have an uncanny ability to penetrate to the true nature of things, had also identified him as a Rivan. He glanced quickly at Aunt Pol, but she seemed absorbed in examining the buds on a rosebush.

“The Sendar is Durnik,” Mister Wolf said, “a smith. In Sendaria that useful trade is considered somewhat akin to nobility. The lad is my grandson, Garion.”

The Emperor looked at the old man. “It seems that I should know who you are. There’s something about you—” He paused thoughtfully. The canary, which had been perched on the arm of the Emperor’s chair, suddenly burst into song. He launched himself into the air and fluttered directly to Aunt Pol. She held out her finger, and the bright bird landed there, tipped back his head and sang ecstatically as if his tiny heart were breaking with adoration. She listened gravely to his song. She wore a dark blue dress, elaborately laced at the bodice, and a short sable cape.

“What are you doing with my canary?” the Emperor demanded.

“Listening,” she said.

“How did you get him to sing? I’ve been trying to coax him into song for months.”

“You didn’t take him seriously enough.”

“Who is this woman?” the Emperor asked.

“My daughter Polgara,” Mister Wolf said. “She has a particularly keen understanding of birds.”

The Emperor laughed suddenly, a harshly skeptical laugh. “Oh, come now. You really don’t expect me to accept that, do you?”

Wolf looked at him gravely. “Are you really sure you don’t know me, Ran Borune?” he asked mildly. The pale green mantle Grinneg had lent him made him look almost like a Tolnedran—almost, but not quite.

“It’s a clever ruse,” the Emperor said. “You look the part, and so does she, but I’m not a child. I gave up fairy tales a long time ago.”

“That’s a pity. I’d guess that your life’s been a little empty since then.” Wolf looked around at the manicured garden with the servants and fountains and the members of the Emperor’s personal guard posted unobtrusively here and there among the flowerbeds. “Even with all this, Ran Borune, a life without any wonder left in it is flat and stale.” His voice was a little sad. “I think that perhaps you gave up too much.”

“Morin,” Ran Borune demanded peremptorily, “send for Zereel. We’ll settle this immediately.”

“At once, your Highness,” Morin said and beckoned to one of the servants.

“May I have my canary back?” the Emperor asked Aunt Pol rather plaintively.

“Of course.” She moved across the grass toward the chair, stepping slowly to avoid startling the trilling little bird.

“Sometimes I wonder what they’re saying when they sing,” Ran Borune said.

“Right now he’s telling me about the day he learned to fly,” Aunt Pol said. “That’s a very important day for a bird.” She reached out her hand, and the canary hopped onto the Emperor’s finger, still singing and with its bright eye cocked toward Ran Borune’s face.

“That’s an amusing conceit, I suppose.” The little old man smiled, staring out at the sunlight sparkling on the water in one of the fountains. “But I’m afraid I don’t have time for that kind of thing. Right now the whole nation is holding its breath in anticipation of my death. They all seem to think that the greatest thing I can do for Tolnedra is to die immediately. Some of them have even gone to the trouble of trying to help me along. We caught four assassins inside the palace grounds just last week. The Borunes, my own family, are deserting me to the point that I scarcely have enough people left to run the palace, much less the Empire. Ah, here comes Zereel.”

A lean, bushy-browed man in a red mantle covered with mystic symbols scurried across the lawn and bowed deeply to the emperor. “You sent for me, your Highness?”

“I am informed that this woman is Polgara the Sorceress,” the Emperor said, “and that the old man there is Belgarath. Be a good fellow, Zereel, and have a look into their credentials.”

“Belgarath and Polgara?” the bushy-browed man scoffed. “Surely your Highness isn’t serious. The names are mythological. No such people exist.”

“You see,” the Emperor said to Aunt Pol. “You don’t exist. I have it on the very best authority. Zereel’s a wizard himself, you know.”

“Really?”

“One of the very best,” he assured her. “Of course most of his tricks are just sleight of hand, since sorcery’s only a sham, but he amuses me and he takes himself very seriously. You may proceed, Zereel, but try not to raise an awful stink, as you usually do.”

“That won’t be necessary, your Highness,” Zereel said flatly. “If they were wizards of any kind, I’d have recognized them immediately. We have special ways of communicating, you know.”

Aunt Pol looked at the wizard with one eyebrow slightly raised. “I think that you should look a bit closer, Zereel,” she suggested. “Sometimes we miss things.” She made an almost imperceptible gesture, and Garion seemed to hear a faint rush of sound.

The wizard stared, his eyes fixed on open air directly in front of him. His eyes began to bulge, and his face turned deathly pale. As if his legs had been cut from under him, he fell onto his face. “Forgive me, Lady Polgara,” he croaked, groveling.

“That’s supposed to impress me, I assume,” the Emperor said. “I’ve seen men’s minds overwhelmed before, however, and Zereel’s mind isn’t all that strong to begin with.”

“This is getting tiresome, Ran Borune,” she said tartly.

“You really ought to believe her, you know.” The canary spoke in a tiny, piping voice. “I knew who she was immediately—of course we’re much more perceptive than you things that creep around on the ground—why do you do that? If you’d just try, I’m sure you’d be able to fly. And I wish you’d stop eating so much garlic—it makes you smell awful.”

“Hush, now,” Aunt Pol said gently to the bird. “You can tell him all about it later.”

The Emperor was trembling violently, and he stared at the bird as if it were a snake.

“Why don’t we all just behave as if we believed that Polgara and I are who we say we are?” Mister Wolf suggested. “We could spend the rest of the day trying to convince you, and we really don’t have that much time. There are some things I have to tell you, and they’re important no matter who I am.”

“I think I can accept that,” Ran Borune said, still trembling and staring at the now-silent canary.

Mister Wolf clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at a cluster of bickering sparrows on the limb of a nearby tree. “Early last fall,” he began, “Zedar the Apostate crept into the throne room at Riva and stole the Orb of Aldur.”

“He did what?” Ran Borune demanded, sitting up quickly. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Wolf answered. “When I catch up with him, maybe I’ll ask him. I’m sure, however, that you can see the importance of the event.”

“Obviously,” the Emperor said.

“The Alorns and the Sendars are quietly preparing for war,” Wolf told him.

“War?” Ran Borune asked in a shocked voice. “With whom?”

“The Angaraks, of course.”

“What’s Zedar got to do with the Angaraks? He could be acting on his own, couldn’t he?”

“Surely you’re not that simple,” Aunt Pol remarked.

“You forget yourself, Lady,” Ran Borune said stiffly. “Where’s Zedar now?”

“He went through Tol Honeth about two weeks ago,” Wolf replied. “If he can get across the border into one of the Angarak kingdoms before I can stop him, the Alorns will march.”

“And Arendia with them,” Mandorallen said firmly. “King Korodullin has also been advised.”

“You’ll tear the world apart,” the Emperor protested.

“Perhaps,” Wolf admitted, “but we can’t let Zedar get to Torak with the Orb.”

“I’ll send emissaries at once,” Ran Borune said. “This has to be headed off before it gets out of hand.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Barak said grimly. “Anheg and the others aren’t in any mood for Tolnedran diplomacy right now.”

“Your people have a bad reputation in the north, your Highness,” Silk pointed out. “They always seem to have a few trade agreements up their sleeves. Every time Tolnedra mediates a dispute, it seems to cost a great deal. I don’t think we can afford your good offices anymore.”

A cloud passed in front of the sun, and the garden seemed suddenly chilly in its shadow.

“This is being blown all out of proportion,” the Emperor protested. “The Alorns and the Angaraks have been squabbling over that worthless stone for thousands of years. You’ve been waiting for the chance to fall on each other, and now you’ve got an excuse. Well, enjoy yourselves. Tolnedra’s not going to get involved as long as I’m her Emperor.”

“You’re not going to be able to sit to one side in this, Ran Borune,” Aunt Pol said.

“Why not? The Orb doesn’t concern me one way or the other. Go ahead and destroy each other if you want. Tolnedra will still be here when it’s all over.”

“I doubt it,” Wolf told him. “Your Empire’s crawling with Murgos. They could overrun you in a week.”

“They’re honest merchants—here on honest business.”

“Murgos don’t have honest business,” Aunt Pol told him. “Every Murgo in Tolnedra is here because he was sent by the Grolim High Priest.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Ran Borune said stubbornly. “The whole world knows that you and your father have an obsessive hatred of all Angaraks, but times have changed.”

“Cthol Murgos is still ruled from Rak Cthol,” Wolf said, “and Ctuchik is master there. Ctuchik hasn’t changed, even if the world has. The merchants from Rak Goska might seem civilized to you, but they all jump when Ctuchik whistles, and Ctuchik’s the disciple of Torak.”

“Torak’s dead.”

“Really?” Aunt Pol said. “Have you seen his grave? Have you opened the grave and seen his bones?”

“My Empire’s very expensive to run,” the Emperor said, “and I need the revenue the Murgos bring me. I’ve got agents in Rak Goska and all along the South Caravan Route, so I’d know if the Murgos were getting ready for any kind of move against me. I’m just a little suspicious that all this might be the result of some internal contention within the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. You people have your own motives, and I’m not going to let you use my Empire as a pawn in your power struggles.”

“And if the Angaraks win?” Aunt Pol said, “How do you plan to deal with Torak?”

“I’m not afraid of Torak.”

“Have you ever met him?” Wolf asked.

“Obviously not. Listen, Belgarath, you and your daughter have never been friendly to Tolnedra. You treated us like a defeated enemy after Vo Mimbre. Your information’s interesting, and I’ll consider it in its proper perspective, but Tolnedran policy is not dominated by Alorn preconceptions. Our economy relies heavily on trade along the South Caravan Route. I’m not going to disrupt my Empire simply because you happen to dislike Murgos.”

“You’re a fool then,” Wolf said bluntly.

“You’d be surprised at how many people think so,” the Emperor replied. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with my successor. If he’s a Vorduvian or a Honeth, you might even be able to bribe him, but Borunes don’t take bribes.”

“Or advice,” Aunt Pol added.

“Only when it suits us, Lady Polgara,” Ran Borune said.

“I think we’ve done everything we can here,” Wolf decided.

A bronze door at the back of the garden slammed open, and a tiny girl with flaming hair stormed through, her eyes ablaze. At first Garion thought she was a child, but as she came closer, he realized that she was somewhat older than that. Although she was very small, the short, sleeveless green tunic she wore displayed limbs that were much closer to maturity. He felt a peculiar kind of shock when he saw her—almost, but not quite, like recognition. Her hair was a tumbled mass with long, elaborate curls cascading down over her neck and shoulders, and it was a color that Garion had never seen before, a deep, burnished red that seemed somehow to glow from within. Her skin was a golden color that seemed, as she swept through the shadows of the trees near the gate, to have an almost greenish cast to it. She was in a state verging on sheer rage. “Why am I being kept prisoner here?” she demanded of the Emperor.

“What are you talking about?” Ran Borune asked.

“The legionnaires won’t let me leave the palace grounds!”

“Oh,” the Emperor said, “that.”

“Exactly. That. ”

“They’re acting on my orders, Ce’Nedra,” the Emperor told her.

“So they said. Tell them too stop it.”

“No.”

“No?” Her tone was incredulous. “No?” Her voice climbed several octaves. “What do you mean, no?”

“It’s too dangerous for you to be out in the city just now,” the Emperor said placatingly.

“Nonsense,” she snapped. “I don’t intend to sit around in this stuffy palace just because you’re afraid of your own shadow. I need some things from the market.”

“Send someone.”

“I don’t want to send anyone!” she shouted at him. “I want to go myself.”

“Well, you can’t,” he said flatly. “Spend your time on your studies instead.”

“I don’t want to study,” she cried. “Jeebers is a stuffy idiot, and he bores me. I don’t want to sit around talking about history or politics or any of the rest of it. I just want an afternoon to myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please, father,” she begged, her tone dropping into a wheedling note. She took hold of one of the folds of his gold mantle and twisted it around one of her tiny fingers. “Please.” The look she directed at the Emperor through her lashes would have melted stone.

“Absolutely not,” he said, refusing to look at her. “My order stands. You will not leave the palace grounds.”

“I hate you!” she cried. Then she ran from the garden in tears. “My daughter,” the Emperor explained almost apologetically. “You can’t imagine what it’s like having a child like that.”

“Oh, I can imagine, all right,” Mister Wolf said, glancing at Aunt Pol. She looked back at him, her eyes challenging.

“Go ahead and say it, father,” she told him. “I’m sure you won’t be happy until you do.”

Wolf shrugged. “Forget it.”

Ran Borune looked thoughtfully at the two of them. “It occurs to me that we might be able to negotiate a bit here,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“What did you have in mind?” Wolf asked.

“You have a certain authority among the Alorns,” the Emperor suggested.

“Some,” Wolf admitted carefully.

“If you were to ask them, I’m sure they’d be willing to overlook one of the more absurd provisions of the Accords of Vo Mimbre.”

“Which one is that?”

“There’s really no necessity for Ce’Nedra to journey to Riva, is there? I’m the last emperor of the Borune Dynasty, and when I die, she won’t be an Imperial Princess anymore. Under the circumstances, I’d say that the requirement doesn’t really apply to her. It’s nonsense anyway. The line of the Rivan King became extinct thirteen hundred years ago, so there isn’t going to be any bridegroom waiting for her in the Hall of the Rivan King. As you’ve seen, Tolnedra’s a very dangerous place just now. Ce’Nedra’s sixteenth birthday’s only a year or so off, and the date’s well known. If I have to send her to Riva, half the assassins in the Empire are going to be lurking outside the palace gates, waiting for her to come out. I’d rather not take that kind of risk. If you could see your way clear to speak to the Alorns, I might be able to make a few concessions regarding the Murgos—restrictions on their numbers, closed areas, that sort of thing.”

“No, Ran Borune,” Aunt Pol said flatly. “Ce’Nedra will go to Riva. You’ve failed to understand that the Accords are only a formality. If your daughter’s the one destined to become the bride of the Rivan King, no force on earth can prevent her from being in the throne room at Riva on the appointed day. My father’s recommendations about the Murgos are only suggestions—for your own good. What you choose to do about the matter is your affair.”

“I think we’ve just about exhausted the possibilities of this conversation,” the Emperor stated coldly.

Two important-looking officials came into the garden and spoke briefly to Lord Morin.

“Your Highness,” the gray-haired chamberlain said deferentially, “the Minister of Trade wanted to inform you that he’s reached an excellent agreement with the trade deputation from Rak Goska. The gentlemen from Cthol Murgos were most accommodating.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Ran Borune said, throwing a meaningful look at Mister Wolf.

“The contingent from Rak Goska would like to pay their respects before they leave,” Morin added.

“By all means,” the Emperor said. “I’ll be delighted to receive them here.”

Morin turned and nodded shortly to the two officials near the gate. The officials turned and spoke to someone outside, and the gate swung open.

Five Murgos strode into the garden. Their coarse black robes were hooded, but the hoods were thrown back. The front of their robes were unclasped, and the chain mail shirts they all wore gleamed in the sunlight. The Murgo in front was a bit taller than the others, and his bearing indicated that he was the leader of the deputation. A welter of images and partial memories flooded Garion’s mind as he looked at the scar-faced enemy he had known all his life. The strange pull of the silent, hidden linkage between them touched him. It was Asharak.

Something brushed Garion’s mind, tentative only—not the powerful force the Murgo had directed at him in the dim hallway in Anheg’s palace at Val Alorn. The amulet under his tunic became very cold and yet seemed to burn at the same time.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Asharak said, striding forward with a cold smile, “we are honored to be admitted into your august presence.” He bowed, his mail shirt clinking.

Barak was holding Hettar’s right arm firmly, and Mandorallen moved and took the other.

“I’m overjoyed to see you again, worthy Asharak,” the Emperor said. “I’m told that an agreement has been reached.”

“Beneficial to both sides, your Highness.”

“The best kind of agreement,” Ran Borune approved.

“Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos, sends greetings,” Asharak said. “His Majesty feels most keenly the desirability of cementing relations between Cthol Murgos and Tolnedra. He hopes that one day he may call your Imperial Highness brother.”

“We respect the peaceful intentions and legendary wisdom of Taur Urgas.” The Emperor smiled with a certain smugness.

Asharak looked around, his black eyes flat. “Well, Ambar,” he said to Silk, “your fortunes seem to have improved since we met last in Mingan’s counting room in Darine.”

Silk spread his hands in an innocent-looking gesture. “The Gods have been kind—most of them, anyway.”

Asharak smiled briefly.

“You know each other?” the Emperor asked, a bit surprised.

“We’ve met, your Highness,” Silk admitted.

“In another kingdom,” Asharak added. He looked directly then at Mister Wolf. “Belgarath,” he said politely with a brief nod.

“Chamdar,” the old man replied.

“You’re looking well.”

“Thank you.”

“It seems that I’m the only stranger here,” the Emperor said.

“Chamdar and I have known each other for a very long time,” Mister Wolf told him. He glanced at the Murgo with a faintly malicious twinkle in his eyes. “I see that you’ve managed to recover from your recent indisposition.”

Asharak’s face flickered with annoyance, and he looked quickly at his shadow on the grass as if for reassurance.

Garion remembered what Wolf had said atop the tor after the attack of the Algroths—something about a shadow returning by an “indirect route.” For some reason the information that Asharak the Murgo and Chamdar the Grolim were the same man did not particularly surprise him. Like a complex melody that had been faintly out of tune, the sudden merging of the two seemed right somehow. The knowledge clicked in his mind like a key in a lock.

“Someday you’ll have to show me how you did that,” Asharak was saying. “I found the experience interesting. My horse had hysterics, however.”

“My apologies to your horse.”

“Why is it that I feel as if I’m missing about half of this conversation?” Ran Borune asked.

“Forgive us, your Highness,” Asharak said. “Ancient Belgarath and I are renewing an old enmity. We’ve seldom had the opportunity to speak to each other with any degree of civility.” He turned and bowed politely to Aunt Pol. “My Lady Polgara. You’re as beautiful as ever.” He eyed her with a deliberately suggestive stare.

“You haven’t changed much either, Chamdar.” Her tone was mild, even bland, but Garion, who knew her so well, recognized immediately the deadly insult she had just delivered to the Grolim.

“Charming,” Asharak said with a faint smile.

“This is better than a play,” the Emperor cried delightedly. “You people are actually dripping with malice. I wish I’d had the opportunity to see the first act.”

“The first act was very long, your Highness,” Asharak said, “and quite often tedious. As you may have noticed, Belgarath sometimes gets carried away with his own cleverness.”

“I’m certain I’ll be able to make up for that,” Mister Wolf told him with a slight smile. “I promise you that the last act will be extremely short, Chamdar.”

“Threats, old man?” Asharak asked. “I thought we’d agreed to be civilized.”

“I can’t recall when we ever agreed on anything,” Wolf said. He turned to the Emperor. “I think we’ll leave now, Ran Borune,” he said. “With your permission, of course.”

“Of course,” the Emperor replied. “I’m pleased to have met you though I still don’t believe in you, naturally. My skepticism, however, is theological, not personal.”

“I’m glad of that,” Wolf said, and quite suddenly he grinned impishly at the Emperor.

Ran Borune laughed.

“I look forward to our next meeting, Belgarath,” Asharak said.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Wolf advised him, then turned and led the way out of the Emperor’s garden.

17

It was midafternoon when they emerged from the palace gate. The broad lawns were green in the warm spring sunlight, and the cypress trees stirred in a faint breeze.

“I don’t think we want to stay in Tol Honeth too much longer,” Wolf said.

“Do we leave now, then?” Mandorallen asked.

“There’s something I have to do first,” Wolf replied, squinting into the sunlight. “Barak and his cousin will come along with me. The rest of you go on back to Grinneg’s house and wait there.”

“We’ll stop by the central market on our way,” Aunt Pol told him. “There are a few things I need.”

“This isn’t a shopping expedition, Pol.”

“The Grolims already know we’re here, father,” she said, “so there’s no point in creeping about like sneak thieves, is there?”

He sighed. “All right, Pol.”

“I knew you’d see it my way,” she said.

Mister Wolf shook his head helplessly and rode off with Barak and Grinneg. The rest of them rode down the hill from the palace toward the gleaming city below. The streets at the foot of the hill were broad and lined on either side by magnificent houses-each almost a palace in itself.

“The rich and the noble,” Silk said. “In Tol Honeth, the closer you live to the palace, the more important you are.”

“’Tis oft times thus, Prince Kheldar,” Mandorallen observed. “Wealth and position sometimes need the reassurance of proximity to the seat of power. By ostentation and propinquity to the throne, small men are able to avoid facing their own inadequacy.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Silk said.

The central marketplace of Tol Honeth was a vast square filled with bright-colored booths and stalls where a significant portion of the goods of the world were on display. Aunt Pol dismounted, left her horse with one of the Cherek guards, and moved busily from booth to booth, buying, it appeared, almost everything in sight. Silk’s face blanched often at her purchases, since he was paying for them.

“Can’t you talk to her?” the small man pleaded with Garion. “She’s destroying me.”

“What makes you think she’d listen to me?” Garion asked.

“You could at least try,” Silk said desperately.

Three richly mantled men stood near the center of the market, arguing heatedly.

“You’re mad, Haldor,” one of them, a thin man with a snub nose, said agitatedly. “The Honeths would strip the Empire for their own profit.” His face was flushed, and his eyes bulged dangerously.

“Would Kador of the Vorduvians be any better?” the stout man named Haldor demanded. “You’re the one who’s mad, Radan. If we put Kador on the throne, he’ll grind us all under foot. There’s such a thing as being too imperial.”

“How dare you?” Radan almost screamed, his perspiring face growing darker. “Grand Duke Kador is the only possible choice. I’d vote for him even if he hadn’t paid me.” He flung his arms about wildly as he talked, and his tongue seemed to stumble over his words.

“Kador’s a pig,” Haldor said flatly, carefully watching Radan as if gauging the impact of his words. “An arrogant, brutal pig with no more right to the throne than a mongrel dog. His great-grandfather bought his way into the House of Vordue, and I’d sooner open a vein than bow to the offspring of a sneak thief from the docks of Tol Vordue.”

Radan’s eyes almost started from his head at Haldor’s calculated insults. He opened his mouth several times as if trying to speak, but his tongue seemed frozen with fury. His face turned purple, and he clawed at the air in front of him. Then his body stiffened and began to arch backward.

Haldor watched him with an almost clinical detachment.

With a strangled cry, Radan toppled back onto the cobblestones, his arms and legs threshing violently. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to foam at the mouth as his convulsions became more violent. He began to bang his head on the stones, and his twitching fingers clutched at his throat.

“Amazing potency,” the third mantled man said to Haldor. “Where did you find it?”

“A friend of mine recently made a voyage to Sthiss Tor,” Haldor said, watching Radan’s convulsions with interest. “The beautiful part of it is that it’s completely harmless unless one gets excited. Radan wouldn’t drink the wine until I tasted it first to prove that it was safe.”

“You’ve got the same poison in your own stomach?” the other man asked with astonishment.

“I’m quite safe,” Haldor said. “My emotions never get the best of me.”

Radan’s convulsions had grown weaker. His heels beat at the stones with a rapid pattering sound; then he stiffened, gave a long, gurgling sigh, and died.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any of the drug left, do you?” Haldor’s friend asked thoughtfully. “I’d be willing to pay quite a bit for something like that.”

Haldor laughed. “Why don’t we go to my house, and we’ll talk about it? Over a cup of wine, perhaps?”

The other man threw him a startled glance; then he laughed too, although a bit nervously. The two of them turned and walked away, leaving the dead man sprawled on the stones.

Garion stared in horror at them and then at the black-faced corpse lying so grotesquely twisted in the center of the marketplace. The Tolnedrans near the body seemed to ignore its existence. “Why doesn’t somebody do something?” he demanded.

“They’re afraid,” Silk said. “If they show any concern, they might be mistaken for partisans. Politics here in Tol Honeth are taken very seriously.”

“Shouldn’t someone notify the authorities?” Durnik suggested, his face pale and his voice shaking.

“I’m sure it’s already been taken care of,” Silk said. “Let’s not stand around staring. I don’t think we want to get involved in this sort of thing.”

Aunt Pol came back to where they were standing. The two Cherek warriors from Grinneg’s house who had been accompanying her were loaded down with bundles and both of them looked a little sheepish about it.

“What are you doing?” she asked Silk.

“We were just watching a bit of Tolnedran politics in action,” Silk said, pointing at the dead man in the center of the square.

“Poison?” she asked, noting Radan’s contorted limbs.

Silk nodded. “A strange one. It doesn’t seem to work unless the victim gets excited.”

“Athsat,” she said with a grim nod.

“You’ve heard of it before?” Silk seemed surprised.

She nodded. “It’s quite rare, and very expensive. I didn’t think the Nyissans would be willing to sell any of it.”

“I think we should move away from here,” Hettar suggested. “There’s a squad of legionnaires coming, and they might want to question any witnesses.”

“Good idea,” Silk said and led them toward the far side of the marketplace.

Near the row of houses that marked the edge of the square, eight burly men carried a heavily veiled litter. As the litter approached, a slender, jeweled hand reached languidly out from behind the veil and touched one of the porters on the shoulder. The eight men stopped immediately and set the litter down.

“Silk,” a woman’s voice called from within the litter, “what are you doing back in Tol Honeth?”

“Bethra?” Silk said. “Is that you?”

The veil was drawn back, revealing a lushly endowed woman lounging on crimson satin cushions inside the litter. Her dark hair was elaborately curled with strings of pearls woven into her tresses. Her pink silken gown clung to her body, and golden rings and bracelets clasped her arms and fingers. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful, and her long-lashed eyes were wicked. There was about her a kind of overripeness and an almost overpowering sense of self indulgent corruption. For some reason Garion felt himself blushing furiously.

“I thought you’d still be running,” she said archly to Silk. “The men I sent after you were very professional.”

Silk bowed with an ironic little flourish. “They were quite good, Bethra,” he agreed with a wry grin. “Not quite good enough, but very good, actually. I hope you didn’t need them anymore.”

“I always wondered why they didn’t come back.” She laughed. “I should have known, of course. I hope you didn’t take it personally.”

“Certainly not, Bethra. It’s just part of the profession, after all.”

“I knew you’d understand,” she said. “I had to get rid of you. You were disrupting my entire plan.”

Silk grinned wickedly. “I know,” he gloated. “And after all you had to go through to set it up—and with the Thullish ambassador, no less.”

She made a disgusted face.

“Whatever happened to him?” Silk asked.

“He went swimming in the Nedrane.”

“I didn’t know that Thulls swam all that well.”

“They don’t—particularly not with large rocks tied to their feet. After you’d destroyed the whole thing, I didn’t really need him anymore, and there were some things I didn’t want him mentioning in certain quarters.”

“You always were prudent, Bethra.”

“What are you up to now?” she asked curiously.

Silk shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that.”

“The succession?”

“Oh, no.” He laughed. “I know better than to get involved in that. Which side are you on?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Silk looked around, his eyes narrowing. “I could use some information, Bethra—if you’re free to talk about it, of course.”

“About what, Silk?”

“The city seems to be awash with Murgos,” Silk said. “If you’re not presently involved with them, I’d appreciate anything you could tell me.”

She smiled at him archly. “And what would you be willing to pay?” she asked.

“Couldn’t we just call it professional courtesy?”

She smiled wickedly at him; then she laughed. “Why not? I like you, Silk, and I think I’ll like you even more if you owe me a favor.”

“I’ll be your slave,” he promised.

“Liar.” She thought for a moment. “The Murgos have never really shown all that much interest in trade,” she said. “But a few years ago they began arriving in twos and threes; and then late last summer, whole caravans started coming in from Rak Goska.”

“You think they want to influence the succession?” Silk asked.

“That would be my guess,” she said. “There’s a great deal of red gold in Tol Honeth suddenly. My coin chests are full of it.”

Silk grinned. “It all spends.”

“It does indeed.”

“Have they picked any one candidate?”

“Not that I’ve been able to determine. They seem to be divided into two different factions, and there’s quite a bit of antagonism between them.”

“That could be a ruse, of course.”

“I don’t think so. I think the antagonism has to do with the quarrel between Zedar and Ctuchik. Each side wants to get control of the next Emperor. They’re spending money like water.”

“Do you know the one called Asharak?”

“Ah, that one,” she replied. “The other Murgos are all afraid of him. At the moment he seems to be working for Ctuchik, but I think he’s playing some game of his own. He owns the Grand Duke Kador out right, and Kador’s closest to the throne right now. That puts Asharak in a very powerful position. That’s about all I really know.”

“Thank you, Bethra,” Silk said respectfully.

“Are you planning to stay in Tol Honeth for long?” she asked.

“Unfortunately no.”

“Pity. I was hoping you might be able to come by for a visit. We could talk over old times. I don’t have many close friends anymore—or dear enemies, like you.”

Silk laughed dryly. “I wonder why,” he said. “I don’t imagine I could swim much better than the Thullish ambassador did. You’re a dangerous woman, Bethra.”

“In more ways than one,” she admitted, stretching languidly. “But your life’s not really in any danger from me, Silk—not anymore.”

“It wasn’t my life I was worried about.” Silk grinned.

“That’s another matter, of course,” she admitted. “Don’t forget that you owe me a favor.”

“I hunger for the opportunity to repay my debt,” he said impudently.

“You’re impossible.” She laughed, then gestured to her porters, and they lifted her litter to their shoulders. “Good-bye, Silk,” she said.

“Good-bye, Bethra,” he replied with a deep bow.

“Absolutely disgusting,” Durnik said in a voice strangled with outrage as the porters marched away with the litter. “Why is a woman like that even permitted to stay in the city?”

“Bethra?” Silk asked in surprise. “She’s the most brilliant and fascinating woman in Tol Honeth. Men come from all over the world just for an hour or two with her.”

“For a price, of course,” Durnik said.

“Don’t misunderstand her, Durnik,” Silk told him. “Her conversation’s probably more valuable than—” He coughed slightly with a quick glance at Aunt Pol.

“Really?” Durnik questioned in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

Silk laughed. “Durnik,” he said, “I love you like a brother, but you’re a terrible prude, do you know that?”

“Leave him alone, Silk,” Aunt Pol said firmly. “I like him exactly the way he is.”

“I’m only trying to improve him, Lady Polgara,” Silk explained innocently.

“Barak’s right about you, Prince Kheldar,” she said. “You’re a very bad man.”

“It’s all in the line of duty. I sacrifice my more delicate feelings for the sake of my country.”

“Of course!”

“Surely you don’t imagine that I enjoy that sort of thing?”

“Why don’t we just let it drop?” she suggested.

Grinneg, Barak, and Mister Wolf returned to Grinneg’s house not long after the others had arrived.

“Well?” Aunt Pol asked Wolf as the old man came into the room where they had been waiting.

“He went south,” Wolf said.

“South? He didn’t turn east toward Cthol Murgos?”

“No,” Wolf said. “He’s probably trying to avoid a meeting with Ctuchik’s people. He’ll look for a quiet place to slip across the border. Either that or he’s headed for Nyissa. Perhaps he’s made some arrangement with Salmissra. We’ll have to follow him to find out.”

“I met an old friend in the marketplace,” Silk said from the chair in which he lounged. “She tells me that Asharak’s been involved in the politics of succession. It appears that he’s managed to buy the Grand Duke of Vordue. If the Vorduvians get the throne, Asharak’s going to have Tolnedra in the palm of his hand.”

Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “We’re going to have to do something about him sooner or later. He’s beginning to make me just a little tired.”

“We could stop over for a day or so,” Aunt Pol suggested. “Attend to it once and for all.”

“No,” Wolf decided. “It’s probably best not to do that sort of thing here in the city. The business is likely to be a bit noisy, and Tolnedrans get excited about things they can’t understand. I’m sure he’ll give us an opportunity later—in some less-populated place.”

“Do we leave now, then?” Silk asked.

“Let’s wait until early morning,” Wolf told him. “We’ll probably be followed, but if the streets are empty, it will make things a little more difficult for them.”

“I’ll talk to my cook, then,” Grinneg said. “The least I can do is send you on your way with a good meal to help you face the road. Then, of course, there’s still that barrel of ale to be dealt with.”

Mister Wolf smiled broadly at that, then caught Aunt Pol’s reproving frown. “It would only go flat, Pol,” he explained. “Once it’s broached, you have to drink it up fairly quickly. It would be a shame to waste it, wouldn’t it?”

18

They left Grinneg’s house before dawn the next morning, dressed once more in their traveling clothes. They slipped quietly out a back gate and proceeded through those narrow alleys and back streets Silk always seemed able to find. The sky to the east was beginning to lighten when they reached the massive bronze gate on the south end of the island.

“How long until the gate opens?” Mister Wolf asked one of the legionnaires.

“Not much longer,” the legionnaire told him. “Just as soon as we can see the far bank clearly.”

Wolf grunted. He had grown quite mellow the evening before and he was obviously troubled by a headache this morning. He dismounted, went to one of the packhorses, and drank from a leather waterskin.

“That isn’t going to help, you know,” Aunt Pol told him a bit smugly. He chose not to answer.

“I think it’s going to be a lovely day today,” she said brightly, looking first at the sky and then at the men around her who slumped in their saddles in attitudes of miserable dejection.

“You’re a cruel woman, Polgara,” Barak said sadly.

“Did you talk to Grinneg about that ship?” Mister Wolf asked.

“I think so,” Barak replied. “I seem to remember saying something about it.”

“It’s fairly important,” Wolf said.

“What’s this?” Aunt Pol asked.

“I thought it might not be a bad idea to have a ship waiting off the mouth of the River of the Woods,” Wolf said. “If we have to go to Sthiss Tor, it would probably be better to sail there rather than wade through the swamps in northern Nyissa.”

“That’s a very good idea, actually,” she approved. “I’m surprised it occurred to you—considering your condition last night.”

“Do you suppose we could talk about something else?” he asked somewhat plaintively.

It grew imperceptibly lighter, and the command to open the gate came from the watchtower on the wall above. The legionnaires slipped the iron bar and swung the ponderous gate open. With Mandorallen at his side, Silk led them out through the thick portal and across the bridge that spanned the dark waters of the Nedrane.

By noon they were eight leagues south of Tol Honeth, and Mister Wolf had somewhat regained his composure, though his eyes still seemed a bit sensitive to the bright spring sunlight, and he winced now and then when a bird sang a bit too near.

“Riders coming up behind,” Hettar said.

“How many?” Barak asked.

“Two.”

“Ordinary travelers, perhaps,” Aunt Pol said.

The two figures on horseback appeared from around a bend behind them and stopped. They spoke together for a moment or two and then came on, their bearing somewhat cautious. They were a peculiar pair. The man wore a green Tolnedran mantle, a garment not really suited for riding. His forehead was quite high, and his hair was carefully combed to conceal his encroaching baldness. He was very skinny, and his ears stuck out from the side of his head like flaps. His companion appeared to be a child dressed in a hooded traveling cloak and with a kerchief across her face to keep out the dust.

“Good day to you,” the skinny man greeted them politely as the pair drew alongside.

“Hello,” Silk returned.

“Warm for so early in the year, isn’t it?” the Tolnedran said.

“We noticed that,” Silk agreed.

“I wonder,” the skinny man asked, “do you have a bit of water you could spare?”

“Of course,” Silk said. He looked at Garion and gestured toward the pack animals. Garion dropped back and unhooked a leather waterskin from one of the packs. The stranger removed the wooden stopper and carefully wiped the mouth of the skin. He offered the bag to his companion. She removed her kerchief and looked at the skin with an expression of perplexity.

“Like this, your-uh-my Lady,” the man explained, taking the skin back, raising it in both hands and drinking.

“I see,” the girl said.

Garion looked at her more closely. The voice was familiar for some reason, and there was something about her face. She was not a child, though she was very small, and there was a kind of self indulged petulance about her tiny face. Garion was almost certain he had seen her somewhere before.

The Tolnedran handed the waterskin back to her, and she drank, making a small face at the resinous taste. Her hair was a purplish black, and there were faint dark smears on the collar of her traveling cloak that indicated that the color was not natural.

“Thank you, Jeebers,” she said after she had drunk. “And thank you, sir,” she said to Silk.

Garion’s eyes narrowed as a dreadful suspicion began to grow in his mind.

“Are you going far?” the skinny man asked Silk.

“Quite a ways,” Silk answered. “I’m Radek of Boktor, a Drasnian merchant, and I’m bound to the south with Sendarian woolens. This break in the weather destroyed the market in Tol Honeth, so I thought I’d try Tol Rane. It’s in the mountains, and it’s probably still cold there.”

“You’re taking the wrong road, then,” the stranger said. “The road to Tol Rane lies off to the east.”

“I’ve had trouble on that road,” Silk said glibly. “Robbers, you know. I thought it’d be safer to go through Tol Borune.”

“What a coincidence,” the skinny man told him. “My pupil and I are bound for Tol Borune ourselves.”

“Yes,” Silk admitted. “Quite a coincidence.”

“Perhaps we could ride along together.”

Silk looked doubtful.

“I don’t see any reason why not,” Aunt Pol decided before he could refuse.

“You’re most kind, gracious lady,” the stranger said. “I am Master Jeebers, Fellow of the Imperial Society, a tutor by profession. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“I can’t really say so,” Silk told him, “although that’s not too remarkable, since we’re strangers here in Tolnedra.”

Jeebers looked a bit disappointed. “I suppose that’s true,” he said. “This is my pupil, Lady Sharell. Her father’s a grand master merchant, the Baron Reldon. I’m accompanying her to Tol Borune where she’s to visit relatives.”

Garion knew that was not true. The tutor’s name had confirmed his suspicions.

They rode several miles further, with Jeebers babbling animatedly at Silk. He spoke endlessly about his learning and continually prefaced his remarks with references to important people who seemed to rely on his judgment. Although he was tiresome, he appeared to be quite harmless. His pupil rode beside Aunt Pol, saying very little.

“I think it’s time we stopped for a bite to eat,” Aunt Pol announced. “Would you and your pupil care to join us, Master Jeebers? We have plenty.”

“I’m quite overcome by your generosity,” the tutor said. “We’d be delighted.”

They stopped the horses near a small bridge that crossed a brook and led them into the shade of a thick clump of willows not far from the road. Durnik built a fire, and Aunt Pol began to unload her pots and kettles.

Master Jeebers’ pupil sat in her saddle until the tutor quickly stepped over to help her down. She looked at the slightly marshy ground near the brook unenthusiastically. Then she glanced imperiously at Garion. “You-boy,” she called. “Fetch me a cup of fresh water.”

“The brook’s right there,” he told her, pointing.

She stared at him in amazement. “But the ground’s all muddy,” she objected.

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” he admitted and then quite deliberately turned his back on her and went over to help his Aunt.

“Aunt Pol,” he said after several moments of debating with himself.

“Yes, dear?”

“I don’t think the Lady Sharell’s who she says she is.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not completely positive, but I think she’s the Princess Ce’Nedra —the one who came into the garden when we were at the palace.”

“Yes, dear. I know.”

“You know?”

“Of course. Would you hand me the salt, please?”

“Isn’t it dangerous to have her with us?”

“Not really,” she said. “I think we can manage it.”

“Won’t she be a lot of bother?”

“An Imperial Princess is supposed to be a lot of bother, dear.” After they had eaten a savory stew which seemed to Garion quite good but which their little guest appeared to find distasteful, Jeebers began to approach a subject which had obviously been on his mind since they had first met. “Despite the best efforts of the legions, the roads are never entirely safe,” the fussy man said. “It’s imprudent to travel alone, and the Lady Sharell’s been entrusted to my care. Since I’m responsible for her safety, I was wondering if we might travel along with you. We wouldn’t be any bother, and I’d be more than happy to pay for whatever food we eat.”

Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol.

“Of course,” she said.

Silk looked surprised.

“There’s no reason we can’t travel together,” she went on. “We’re all going to the same place, after all.”

Silk shrugged. “Anything you say.”

Garion knew the idea was a mistake so serious that it bordered on disaster. Jeebers would not be a good traveling companion, and his pupil showed every sign of quickly becoming intolerable. She was obviously accustomed to extensive personal service, and her demands were probably made without thought. They were still demands, however, and Garion knew immediately who was most likely to be expected to attend to them. He got up and walked around to the far side of the clump of willows.

The fields beyond the trees were pale green in the spring sunshine, and small white clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Garion leaned against a tree and gazed out at the fields without actually seeing them. He would not become a servant—no matter who their little guest might be. He wished there were some way he could get that firmly established right at the outset—before things got out of hand.

“Have you lost your senses, Pol?” he heard Mister Wolf say somewhere behind him among the trees. “Ran Borune’s probably got every legion in Tolnedra looking for her by now.”

“This is my province, Old Wolf,” Aunt Pol told him. “Don’t interfere. I can manage things so that we won’t be bothered by the legions.”

“We don’t have the time to coddle her,” the old man said. “I’m sorry, Pol, but the child’s going to be an absolute little monster. You saw the way she acted toward her father.”

“It’s no great chore to break bad habits,” she said, unconcerned.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to arrange to have her taken back to Tol Honeth?”

“She’s already run away once,” Aunt Pol answered. “If we send her back, she’ll just run away again. I’ll feel much more comfortable having her Imperial little Highness where I can put my hands on her when I need her. When the proper time comes, I don’t want to have to take the world apart looking for her.”

Wolf sighed. “Have it your way, Pol.”

“Naturally.”

“Just keep the brat away from me,” he said. “She sets my teeth on edge. Do any of the others know who she is?”

“Garion does.”

“Garion? That’s surprising.”

“Not really,” Aunt Pol said. “He’s brighter than he looks.”

A new emotion began to grow in Garion’s already confused mind. Aunt Pol’s obvious interest in Ce’Nedra sent a sharp pang through him. With a certain amount of shame, he realized that he was jealous of the attention the girl was receiving.

In the days that followed, Garion’s fears quickly proved to be wellfounded. An inadvertant remark about Faldor’s farm had revealed quite early to the princess his former status as a scullery-boy, and she used the knowledge heartlessly to browbeat him into a hundred stupid little errands every day. To make it all worse, each time he tried to resist, Aunt Pol would firmly remind him to pay more attention to his manners. Inevitably, he became quite surly about the whole business.

The princess developed a story about the reason for her departure from Tol Honeth as they rode south. The story changed daily, growing more wildly implausible with every passing league. At first she seemed content to be on a simple excursion to visit relatives; then she dropped dark hints about flight from a marriage to an ugly old merchant. Next, there were even darker hints about a plot to capture her and hold her for ransom. Finally, in a crowning effort, she confided to them that the proposed kidnapping was politically motivated—a part of some vast scheme to gain power in Tolnedra.

“She’s an awful liar, isn’t she?” Garion asked Aunt Pol when they were alone one evening.

“Yes, dear,” Aunt Pol agreed. “Lying is an art. A good lie shouldn’t be embellished so much. She’ll need a lot more practice if she plans to make a career of it.”

Finally, about ten days after they had left Tol Honeth, the city of Tol Borune came into sight in the afternoon sun.

“It looks like this is where we part company,” Silk said to Jeebers with a certain amount of relief.

“Aren’t you going into the city?” Jeebers asked.

“I don’t think so,” Silk answered. “We don’t really have any business to take care of there, and the usual explanations and searches just waste time-not to mention the expense of the bribes. We’ll go around Tol Borune and pick up the road to Tol Rane on the other side.”

“We can ride a bit farther with you then,” Ce’Nedra said quickly. “My relatives live on an estate to the south of the city.”

Jeebers stared at her in amazement.

Aunt Pol drew in her horse and looked at the small girl with a raised eyebrow. “This seems like as good a place as any for us to have a little talk,” she said.

Silk looked quickly at her and then nodded.

“I believe, little lady,” Aunt Pol told the girl when they had all dismounted, “that the time has come for you to tell us the truth.”

“But I have,” Ce’Nedra protested.

“Oh, come now, child,” Aunt Pol said. “Those stories of yours have been very entertaining, but you don’t actually think anyone believed them, do you? Some of us already know who you are, but I really think we should get it out in the open.”

“You know?” Ce’Nedra faltered.

“Of course, dear,” Aunt Pol said. “Would you like to tell them, or shall I?”

Ce’Nedra’s little shoulders drooped. “Tell them who I am, Master Jeebers,” she ordered quietly.

“Do you really think that’s wise, your Ladyship?” Jeebers asked nervously.

“They already know anyway,” she said. “If they were going to do anything to us, they’d have done it a long time ago. We can trust them.”

Jeebers drew in a deep breath and then spoke rather formally. “I have the honor to introduce her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ce’Nedra, daughter to his Imperial Majesty, Ran Borune XXIII, and the jewel of the House of Borune.”

Silk whistled, and his eyes widened momentarily. The others showed similar signs of amazement.

“The political situation in Tol Honeth had become far to volatile, too menacing, for her Highness to remain safely in the capital,” Jeebers went on. “The Emperor commissioned me to convey his daughter secretly here to Tol Borune where the members of the Borune family can protect her from the plots and machinations of the Vordues, the Honeths, and the Horbites. I’m proud to say that I’ve managed to execute my commission rather brilliantly—with your help, of course. I’ll mention your assistance in my report—a footnote, perhaps, or maybe even an appendix.”

Barak pulled at his beard, his eyes thoughtful. “An Imperial Princess travels across half of Tolnedra with only a schoolmaster for protection?” he questioned. “At a time when they’re knifing and poisoning each other in the streets?”

“It does seem a trifle risky, doesn’t it?” Hettar agreed.

“Did throe Emperor charge thee with this task in person?” Mandorallen asked Jeebers.

“It wasn’t necessary,” Jeebers said stiffly, “His Highness has a great deal of respect for my judgment and discretion. He knew that I’d be able to devise a safe disguise and a secure mode of travel. The princess assured me of his absolute confidence in me. It all had to be done in utmost secrecy, of course. That’s why she came to my chambers in the middle of the night to advise me of his instructions and why we left the palace without telling anyone what we were—” His voice trailed off, and he stared at Ce’Nedra in horror.

“You might as well tell him the truth, dear,” Aunt Pol advised the little princess. “I think he’s guessed already.”

Ce’Nedra’s chin lifted arrogantly. “The orders came from me, Jeebers,” she told him. “My father had nothing to do with it.” Jeebers went deathly pale and he nearly collapsed.

“What idiocy made you decide to run away from your father’s palace?” Barak demanded of the tiny girl. “All Tolnedra’s probably looking for you, and we’re caught right in the middle.”

“Gently,” Wolf said to the hulking Cherek. “She may be a princess, but she’s still a little girl. Don’t frighten her.”

“The question’s to the point, though,” Hettar observed. “If we’re caught with an Imperial Princess in our company, we’ll all see the inside of a Tolnedran dungeon.” He turned to Ce’Nedra. “Do you have an answer, or were you just playing games?”

She drew herself up haughtily. “I’m not accustomed to explaining my actions to servants.”

“We’re going to have to clear up a few misconceptions before long, I see,” Wolf said.

“Just answer the question, dear,” Aunt Pol told the girl. “Never mind who asked it.”

“My father had imprisoned me in the palace,” Ce’Nedra said in a rather offhand way, as if that explained everything. “It was intolerable, so I left. There’s another matter, too, but that’s a matter of politics. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’d probably be surprised at what we’d understand, Ce’Nedra,” Mister Wolf told her.

“I’m accustomed to being addressed as my Lady,” she said tartly, “or as your Highness.”

“And I’m accustomed to being told the truth.”

“I thought you were in charge,” Ce’Nedra said to Silk.

“Appearances are deceiving,” Silk observed blandly. “I’d answer the question.”

“It’s an old treaty,” she said. “I didn’t sign it, so I don’t see why I should be bound by it. I’m supposed to present myself in the throne room at Riva on my sixteenth birthday.”

“We know that,” Barak said impatiently. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m not going, that’s all,” Ce’Nedra announced. “I won’t go to Riva, and no one can make me go. The queen in the Wood of the Dryads is my kinswoman and she’ll give me sanctuary.”

Jeebers had partially recovered. “What have you done?” he demanded, aghast. “I undertook this with the clear understanding that I’d be rewarded—even promoted. You’ve put my head on the block, you little idiot!”

“Jeebers!” she cried, shocked at his words.

“Let’s get off the road a ways,” Silk suggested. “We’ve obviously got quite a bit to discuss, and we’re likely to be interrupted here on the main highway.”

“Probably a good idea,” Wolf agreed. “Let’s find some quiet place and set up for the night. We’ll decide what we’re going to do and then we can start out fresh in the morning.”

They remounted and rode across the rolling fields toward a line of trees that marked the course of a winding country lane about a mile away.

“How about there?” Durnik suggested, pointing at a broad oak which stood beside the lane, its branches beginning to leaf out in the late afternoon sunlight.

“That should do,” Wolf said.

It was pleasant in the dappled shade beneath the spreading limbs of the oak. The lane was lined with low stone walls, mossy and cool. A stile stepped up over one of the walls just there, and a path meandered across the field from it toward a nearby pond, sparkling in the sun.

“We can put the fire down behind one of the walls,” Durnik said. “It won’t be seen from the main road that way.”

“I’ll get some wood,” Garion volunteered, looking at the dead limbs littering the grass beneath the tree.

They had by now established a sort of routine in the setting up of a night’s encampment. The tents were erected, the horses watered and picketed, and the fire was started all within the space of an hour. Then Durnik, who had noticed a few telltale circles on the surface of the pond, heated an iron pin in the fire and carefully hammered it into a hook.

“What’s that for?” Garion asked him.

“I thought some fish might be good for supper,” the smith said, wiping the hook on the skirt of his leather tunic. He laid it aside then and lifted a second pin out of the fire with a pair of tongs. “Would you like to try your luck too?”

Garion grinned at him.

Barak, who sat nearby combing the snarls out of his beard, looked up rather wistfully. “I don’t suppose you’d have time to make another hook, would you?” he asked.

Durnik chuckled. “It only takes a couple minutes.”

“We’ll need bait,” Barak said, getting up quickly. “Where’s your spade?”

Not long afterward, the three of them crossed the field to the pond, cut some saplings for poles and settled down to serious fishing.

The fish, it appeared, were ravenous and attacked the worm-baited hooks in schools. Within the space of an hour nearly two dozen respectable-sized trout lay in a gleaming row on the grassy bank of the pond.

Aunt Pol inspected their catch gravely when they returned as the sky turned rosy overhead with the setting of the sun. “Very nice,” she told them, “but you forgot to clean them.”

“Oh,” Barak said. He looked slightly pained. “We thought that well, what I mean is—as long as we caught them” He left it hanging.

“Go on,” she said with a level gaze.

Barak sighed. “I guess we’d better clean them,” he regretfully told Durnik and Garion.

“You’re probably right,” Durnik agreed.

The sky had turned purple with evening, and the stars had begun to come out when they sat down to eat. Aunt Pol had fried the trout to a crisp, golden brown, and even the sulky little princess found nothing to complain about as she ate.

After they had finished, they set aside their plates and took up the problem of Ce’Nedra and her flight from Tol Honeth. Jeebers had sunk into such abject melancholy that he could offer little to the discussion, and Ce’Nedra adamantly announced that even if they were to turn her over to the Borunes in the city, she would run away again. In the end, they reached no conclusion.

“We’re in trouble no matter what we do,” Silk summed it all up ruefully. “Even if we try to deliver her to her family, there are bound to be some embarrassing questions, and I’m sure she can be counted on to invent a colorful story that will put us in the worst possible light.”

“We can talk about it some more in the morning,” Aunt Pol said. Her placid tone indicated that she had already made up her mind about something, but she did not elaborate.

Shortly before midnight, Jeebers made his escape. They were all awakened by the thudding of his horse’s hooves as the panic-stricken tutor fled at a gallop toward the walls of Tol Borune.

Silk stood in the flickering light of the dying fire, his face angry. “Why didn’t you stop him?” he asked Hettar, who had been standing watch.

“I was told not to,” the leather-clad Algar said with a glance at Aunt Pol.

“It solves the only real problem we had,” Aunt Pol explained. “The schoolmaster would only have been excess baggage.”

“You knew he was going to run away?” Silk asked.

“Naturally. I helped him to arrive at the decision. He’ll go straight to the Borunes and try to save his own skin by informing them that the princess ran away from the palace on her own and that we have her now.”

“You have to stop him then,” Ce’Nedra said in a ringing voice. “Go after him! Bring him back!”

“After all the trouble I went to persuading him to leave?” Aunt Pol asked. “Don’t be foolish.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?” Ce’Nedra demanded. “You seem to forget who I am.”

“Young lady,” Silk said urbanely, “I think you’d be amazed at how little Polgara’s concerned about who you are.”

“Polgara?” Ce’Nedra faltered. “The Polgara? I thought you said that she was your sister.”

“I lied,” Silk confessed. “It’s a vice I have.”

“You’re not an ordinary merchant,” the girl accused him.

“He’s Prince Kheldar of Drasnia,” Aunt Pol said. “The others have a similar eminence. I’m sure you can see how little your title impresses us. We have our own titles, so we know how empty they are.”

“If you’re Polgara, then he must be—” The princess turned to stare at Mister Wolf, who had seated himself on the lowest step of the stile to pull on his shoes.

“Yes,” Aunt Pol said. “He doesn’t really look the part, does he?”

“What are you doing in Tolnedra?” Ce’Nedra asked in a stunned voice. “Are you going to use magic of some kind to control the outcome of the succession?”

“Why should we?” Mister Wolf said, getting to his feet. “Tolnedrans always seem to think that their politics shake the whole world, but the rest of the world’s really not all that concerned about who gains the throne in Tol Honeth. We’re here on a matter of much greater urgency.” He looked off into the darkness in the direction of Tol Borune. “It will take Jeebers a certain amount of time to convince the people in the city that he’s not a lunatic,” he said, “but it would probably be a good idea if we left the area. I imagine we’d better stay away from the main highway.”

“That’s no problem,” Silk assured him.

“What about me?” Ce’Nedra asked.

“You wanted to go to the Wood of the Dryads,” Aunt Pol told her. “We’re going in that direction anyway, so you’ll stay with us. We’ll see what Queen Xantha says when we get you there.”

“Am I to consider myself a prisoner then?” the princess asked stiffly.

“You can if it makes you feel better, dear,” Aunt Pol said. She looked at the tiny girl critically in the flickering firelight. “I’m going to have to do something about your hair, though. What did you use for dye? It looks awful.”

19

They moved rapidly south for the next few days, traveling frequently at night to avoid the mounted patrols of legionnaires who were beating the countryside in their efforts to locate Ce’Nedra.

“Maybe we should have hung on to Jeebers,” Barak muttered sourly after one near-brush with the soldiers. “He’s roused every garrison from here to the border. It might have been better to have dropped him off in some isolated place or something.”

“That `or something’ has a certain ring of finality to it, old friend,” Silk said with a sharp little grin.

Barak shrugged. “It’s a solution to a problem.”

Silk laughed. “You really should try not to let your knife do all your thinking for you. That’s the one quality we find least attractive in our Cherek cousins.”

“And we find this compulsion to make clever remarks which seems to overwhelm our Drasnian brothers now and then almost equally unattractive,” Barak told him coolly.

“Nicely put,” Silk said with mock admiration.

They rode on, watchful, always ready to hide or to run. During those days they relied heavily on Hettar’s curious ability. Since the patrols searching for them were inevitably mounted, the tall, hawk-faced Algar swept their surroundings with his mind, searching for horses. The warnings he could thus provide usually gave them sufficient notice of the approach of the patrols.

“What’s it like?” Garion asked him one cloudy midmorning as they rode along a seldom-used and weed-grown track to which Silk had led them. “I mean being able to hear a horse’s thoughts?”

“I don’t think I can describe it exactly,” Hettar answered. “I’ve always been able to do it, so I can’t imagine what it’s like not doing it. There’s a kind of reaching-out in a horse’s mind—a sort of inclusiveness. A horse seems to think ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. I suppose it’s because in their natural condition they’re members of a herd. After they get to know you, they think of you as a herd mate. Sometimes they even forget that you’re not a horse.” He broke off suddenly. “Belgarath,” he announced sharply, “there’s another patrol coming just beyond that hill over there. Twenty or thirty of them.”

Mister Wolf looked about quickly. “Have we got time to reach those trees?” He pointed at a thick stand of scrub maple about a half mile ahead.

“If we hurry.”

“Then run!” Wolf ordered, and they all kicked their horses into a sudden burst of speed. They reached the trees just as the first few raindrops of the spring shower that had been threatening all morning pattered on the broad leaves. They dismounted and pushed in among the springy saplings, worming their way back out of sight, leading their horses.

The Tolnedran patrol came over the hilltop and swept down into the shallow valley. The captain in charge of the legionnaires pulled in his horse not far from the stand of maples and dispersed his men with a series of sharp commands. They moved out in small groups, scouting the weedy road in both directions and surveying the surrounding countryside from the top of the next rise. The officer and a civilian in a gray riding cloak remained behind, sitting their horses beside the track.

The captain squinted distastefully up into the sprinkling rain. “It’s going to be a wet day,” he said, dismounting and pulling his crimson cloak tighter around him.

His companion also swung down and turned so that the party hiding among the maples was able to see his face. Garion felt Hettar tense suddenly. The man in the cloak was a Murgo.

“Over here, Captain,” the Murgo said, leading his horse into the shelter provided by the outspreading limbs of the saplings at the edge of the stand.

The Tolnedran nodded and followed the man in the riding cloak. “Have you had a chance to think over my offer?” the Murgo asked.

“I thought it was only speculation,” the captain replied. “We don’t even know that these foreigners are in this quadrant.”

“My information is that they’re going south, captain,” the Murgo told him. “I think you can be quite certain that they’re somewhere in your quadrant.”

“There’s no guarantee that we’ll find them, though,” the captain said. “And even if we do, it’d be very difficult to do what you propose.”

“Captain,” the Murgo explained patiently, “it’s for the safety of the princess, after all. If she’s returned to Tol Honeth, the Vorduvians are going to kill her. You’ve read those documents I brought you.”

“She’ll be safe with the Borunes,” the captain said. “The Vorduvians aren’t going to come into Southern Tolnedra after her.”

“The Borunes are only going to turn her over to her father. You’re a Borune yourself. Would you defy an Emperor of your own house?” The captain’s face was troubled.

“Her only hope of safety is with the Horbites,” the Murgo pressed.

“What guarantees do I have that she’ll be safe with them?”

“The best guarantee of all—politics. The Horbites are doing everything in their power to block the Grand Duke Kador on his march to the throne. Since he wants the princess dead, the Horbites naturally want to keep her alive. It’s the only way really to insure her safety—and you become a wealthy man in the process.” He jingled a heavy purse suggestively.

The captain still looked doubtful.

“Suppose we double the amount,” the Murgo said in a voice that almost purred.

The captain swallowed hard. “It is for her safety, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

“It’s not as if I were betraying the House of Borune.”

“You’re a patriot, Captain,” the Murgo assured the officer with a cold smile.

Aunt Pol was holding Ce’Nedra’s arm quite firmly as they crouched together among the trees. The tiny girl’s face was outraged, and her eyes were blazing.

Later, after the legionnaires and their Murgo friend had departed, the princess exploded. “How dare they?” she raged. “And for money!”

“That Tolnedran politics for you,” Silk said as they led their horses out of the stand of saplings into the drizzly morning.

“But he’s a Borune,” she protested, “a member of my own family.”

“A Tolnedran’s first loyalty is to his purse,” Silk told her. “I’m surprised you haven’t discovered that by now, your Highness.”

A few days later they topped a hill and saw the Wood of the Dryads spreading like a green smudge on the horizon. The showers had blown off, and the sun was very bright.

“We’ll be safe once we reach the Wood,” the princess told them. “The legions won’t follow us there.”

“What’s to stop them?” Garion asked her.

“The treaty with the Dryads,” she said. “Don’t you know anything?”

Garion resented that.

“There’s no one about,” Hettar reported to Mister Wolf. “We can go now or wait for dark.”

“Let’s make a run for it,” Wolf said. “I’m getting tired of dodging patrols.” They started down the hill at a gallop toward the forest lying ahead of them.

There seemed to be none of the usual brushy margin which usually marked the transition from fields to woodlands. The trees simply began. When Wolf led them beneath those trees, the change was as abrupt as if they had suddenly gone inside a house. The Wood itself was a forest of incredible antiquity. The great oaks spread so broadly that the sky was almost never visible. The forest floor was mossy and cool, and there was very little undergrowth. It seemed to Garion that they were all quite tiny under the vast trees, and there was a strange, hushed quality about the wood. The air was very still, and there was a hum of insects and, from far overhead, a chorus of birdsong.

“Strange,” Durnik said, looking around, “I don’t see any sign of woodcutters.”

“Woodcutters?” Ce’Nedra gasped. “In here? They wouldn’t dare come into this wood.”

“The wood is inviolate, Durnik,” Mister Wolf explained. “The Borune family has a treaty with the Dryads. No one has touched a tree here for over three thousand years.”

“This is a curious place,” Mandorallen said, looking around a bit uncomfortably. “Me thinks I feel a presence here—a presence not altogether friendly.”

“The Wood is alive,” Ce’Nedra told him. “It doesn’t really like strangers—but don’t worry, Mandorallen, you’re safe as long as you’re with me.” She sounded quite smug about it.

“Are you sure the patrols won’t follow us?” Durnik asked Mister Wolf. “Jeebers knew we were coming here, after all, and I’m sure he told the Borunes.”

“The Borunes won’t violate their treaty with the Dryads,” Wolf assured him. “Not for any reason.”

“I’ve never known of a treaty a Tolnedran wouldn’t step around if it was to his advantage.” Silk spoke skeptically.

“This one is a bit different,” Wolf said. “The Dryads gave one of their princesses to a young noble of the House of Borune. She became the mother of the Emperor of the First Borune Dynasty. The fortunes of the Borunes are very intimately tied up with the treaty. They’re not going to gamble with that—not for any reason.”

“What exactly is a Dryad?” Garion asked. The strange sense of a presence, an awareness in the wood, made him want to talk to cover the oppressive, watchful silence.

“A small group,” Mister Wolf said. “Quite gentle. I’ve always rather liked them. They aren’t human, of course, but that’s not all that important.”

“I’m a Dryad,” Ce’Nedra said rather proudly.

Garion stared at her.

“Technically she’s right,” Wolf said. “The Dryad line seems to breed true on the female side of the House of Borune. That’s one of the things that keeps the family honest about the treaty—all those wives and mothers who’d pack up and leave if it were ever broken.”

“She looks human,” Garion objected, still staring at the princess.

“The Dryads are so closely related to humans that the differences are hardly significant,” Wolf said. “That probably explains why they didn’t go mad like the other monsters did when Torak cracked the world.”

“Monsters!” Ce’Nedra protested loudly.

“Your pardon, Princess,” Wolf apologized. “It’s an Ulgo term used to describe the non-humans who supported Gorim at Prolgu when he met with the God UL.”

“Do I look like a monster to you?” she demanded, tossing her head angrily.

“A poor choice of words, perhaps,” Wolf murmured. “Forgive me.”

“Monsters indeed!” Ce’Nedra fumed.

Wolf shrugged. “There’s a stream not far ahead, if I remember right. We’ll stop there and wait until word of our arrival reaches Queen Xantha. It’s not a good idea to go into the territory of the Dryads without the queen’s permission. They can get quite nasty if they’re provoked.”

“I thought you said they were gentle,” Durnik said.

“Within reason,” Wolf told him. “But it’s not a good idea to irritate people who communicate with trees when you’re in the middle of a forest. Unpleasant things have a way of happening.” He frowned. “That reminds me. You’d better stow your axe away out of sight. Dryads have strong feelings about axes—and fires. They’re most unreasonable about fire. We’ll have to keep our fires small and only for cooking.”

They rode in under a colossal oak beside a sparkling stream purling over mossy rocks, dismounted and set up their dun-colored tents. After they had eaten, Garion wandered around feeling bored. Mister Wolf was napping, and Silk had lured the others into a dice game. Aunt Pol had seated the Princess on a log and was stripping the purple dye from her hair.

“If you don’t have anything else to do, Garion,” she said, “why don’t you go bathe?”

“Bathe?” he asked. “Where?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a pool somewhere along the stream,” she said, carefully lathering Ce’Nedra’s hair.

“You want me to bathe in that water? Aren’t you afraid I’ll catch cold?”

“You’re a healthy boy, dear,” she told him, “but a very dirty one. Now go wash.”

Garion gave her a dark look and went to one of the packs for clean clothing, soap, and a towel. Then he stamped off upstream, grumbling at every step.

Once he was alone under the trees, he felt even more strongly that peculiar sense of being watched. It was not anything definable. There seemed to be nothing specific about it, but rather it felt as if the oaks themselves were aware of him and were passing information about his movements among themselves with a kind of vegetative communication he could not begin to understand. There seemed to be no menace in it, merely a kind of watchfulness.

Some distance from the tents he found a fairly large pool where the stream dropped in a waterfall from the rocks above. The water in the pool was very clear, and he could see the bright pebbles on the bottom and several large trout that eyed him warily. He tested the water with his hand and shuddered. He considered subterfuge—a quick splashing of water on his body and a bit of soap on the more obvious smudges but on reflection, he gave up the notion. Aunt Pol would settle for nothing less than a complete bath. He sighed bitterly and began to take oft his clothing.

The first shock was awful, but after a few minutes he found that he could bear it. In a short time it even became exhilarating. The waterfall provided a convenient means for rinsing off the soap, and before long he found that he was actually enjoying himself.

“You’re making an awful lot of noise,” Ce’Nedra said, standing on the bank and appraising him quite calmly.

Garion immediately dove to the bottom of the pool.

Unless one was a fish, however, one could hardly remain underwater indefinitely. After about a minute, he struggled to the surface and popped his head out of the water, gasping and sputtering.

“Whatever are you doing?” Ce’Nedra asked. She was wearing a short white tunic, sleeveless and belted at the waist, and open sandals with laces that crisscrossed her slender ankles and calves and tied just below her knees. She carried a towel in one hand.

“Go away,” Garion spluttered.

“Don’t be so silly,” she said, sitting down on a large stone and beginning to unlace her sandals. Her coppery hair was still damp and tumbled in a heavy mass about her shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to bathe,” she said. “Are you going to be much longer?”

“Go someplace else,” Garion cried, starting to shiver, but remaining determinedly crouched over in the water with only his head sticking out.

“This place looks just fine,” she said. “How’s the water?”

“Cold,” he chattered, “but I’m not coming out until you go away.”

“Don’t be such a ninny,” she told him.

He shook his head stubbornly, his face flaming.

She sighed with exasperation. “Oh, very well,” she said. “I won’t look, but I think you’re being very silly. At the baths in Tol Honeth, no one thinks anything at all about such things.”

“This isn’t Tol Honeth,” he told her pointedly.

“I’ll turn my back, if that’ll make you feel better,” she said, getting up and standing with her back to the pool.

Not entirely trusting her, Garion crept from the pool and, still dripping, jerked on his drawers and hose. “All right,” he called, “you can have the pool now.” He mopped at his streaming face and hair with his towel. “I’m going back to the tents.”

“The Lady Polgara says that you’re to stay with me,” she said, calmly untying the cord about her waist.

“Aunt Pol said what?” he demanded, terribly shocked.

“You’re supposed to stay with me to protect me,” she told him. She took hold of the hem of her tunic, obviously preparing to take it off.

Garion spun about and stared determinedly at the trees. His ears flamed, and his hands trembled uncontrollably.

She laughed a small, silvery laugh, and he could hear splashing as she entered the pool. She squealed from the shock of the cold water, and then there was more splashing.

“Bring me the soap,” she commanded.

Without thinking, he bent to pick up the soap and caught one brief glimpse of her standing waist-deep in the water before he shut his eyes tightly. He backed toward the pool, his eyes closed and the hand holding the soap thrust out awkwardly behind him.

She laughed again and took the soap from his hand.

After what seemed an eternity, the princess completed her bath, emerged from the pool, dried herself and put her clothes back on. Garion kept his eyes firmly shut the entire time.

“You Sendars have such curious notions,” she said as they sat together in the sun-warmed glade beside the pool. She was combing her deep red hair, her head inclined to one side and the comb pulling down through the thick, damp tangles. “The baths in Tol Honeth are open to all, and athletic contests are always conducted without clothing. Just last summer I myself ran against a dozen other girls in the Imperial Stadium. The spectators were most appreciative.”

“I can imagine,” Garion said dryly.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the amulet resting against his bare chest.

“My grandfather gave it to me last Erastide,” Garion answered.

“Let me see.” She held out her hand.

He leaned forward.

“Take it off so I can see it,” she ordered.

“I’m not supposed to take it off,” he told her. “Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol say I’m never supposed to take it off for any reason. I think there’s a spell of some kind on it.”

“What a strange idea,” she remarked as she bent to examine the amulet. “They aren’t really sorcerers, are they?”

“Mister Wolf is seven thousand years old,” Garion said. “He knew the God Aldur. I’ve seen him make a tree grow from a small twig in a matter of minutes and set rocks on fire. Aunt Pol cured a blind woman with a single word, and she can turn herself into an owl.”

“I don’t believe in such things,” Ce’Nedra told him. “I’m sure there’s another explanation.”

Garion shrugged and pulled on his linen shirt and brown tunic. He shook his head and raked his fingers through his still-damp hair.

“You’re making an awful mess of it,” she observed critically. “Here.” She stood up and stepped behind him. “Let me do it.” She put the comb to his hair and began pulling it through carefully. “You have nice hair for a man,” she said.

“It’s just hair,” he said indifferently.

She combed in silence for a moment or two, then took his chin in her hand, turned his head and looked at him critically. She touched his hair at the sides a time or two until it was arranged to her satisfaction. “That’s better,” she decided.

“Thank you.” He was a bit confused by the change in her.

She sat down again on the grass, clasped her arms around one knee and gazed at the sparkling pool. “Garion,” she said finally.

“Yes?”

“What’s it like to grow up as an ordinary person?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never been anything but an ordinary person,” he told her, “so I wouldn’t know what to compare it to.”

“You know what I mean. Tell me about where you grew up—and what you did and all.”

So he told her about Faldor’s farm, about the kitchen and Durnik’s smithy and Doroon and Rundorig and Zubrette.

“You’re in love with Zubrette, aren’t you?” She asked it almost accusingly.

“I thought I was, but so much has happened since we left the farm that sometimes I can’t even remember what she looks like. I think I could do without being in love anyway. From what I’ve seen of it, it’s pretty painful most of the time.”

“You’re impossible,” she said, and then she smiled at him, her little face framed in the blazing mass of her sun-touched hair.

“Probably,” he admitted. “All right, now you tell me what it’s like to grow up as a very special person.”

“I’m not that special.”

“You’re an Imperial Princess,” he reminded her. “I’d call that pretty special.”

“Oh, that,” she said, and then giggled. “You know, sometimes since I joined you people, I almost forget that I’m an Imperial Princess.”

“Almost,” he said with a smile, “but not quite.”

“No,” she agreed, “not quite.” She looked out across the pool again. “Most of the time being a princess is very boring. It’s all ceremonies and formalities. You have to stand around most of the time listening to speeches or receiving state visitors. There are guards around all the time, but sometimes I sneak away so I can be by myself. It makes them furious.” She giggled again, and then her gaze turned pensive. “Let me tell your fortune,” she said, taking his hand.

“Can you tell fortunes?” Garion asked.

“It’s only make-believe,” she admitted. “My maids and I play at it sometimes. We all promise each other high-born husbands and many children.” She turned his hand over and looked at it. The silvery mark on his palm was very plain now that the skin was clean. “Whatever is that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s not a disease, is it?”

“No,” he said. “It has always been there. I think it has something to do with my family. Aunt Pol doesn’t like to have people see it for some reason, so she tries to keep it hidden.”

“How could you hide something like that?”

“She finds things for me to do that keep my hands dirty most of the time.”

“How strange,” she said. “I have a birthmark too—right over my heart. Would you like to see it?” She took hold of the neck of her tunic.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Garion told her, blushing furiously.

She laughed a silvery, tinkling little laugh. “You’re a strange boy, Garion. You’re not at all like the other boys I’ve met.”

“They were Tolnedrans probably,” Garion pointed out. “I’m a Sendar—or at least that’s the way I was raised—so there are bound to be differences.”

“You sound as if you’re not sure what you are.”

“Silk says I’m not a Sendar,” Garion said. “He says he isn’t sure exactly what I am, and that’s very odd. Silk can recognize anybody for what he is immediately. Your father thought I was a Rivan.”

“Since the Lady Polgara’s your Aunt and Belgarath’s your Grandfather, you’re probably a sorcerer,” Ce’Nedra observed.

Garion laughed. “Me? That’s silly. Besides, the sorcerers aren’t a race—not like Chereks or Tolnedrans or Rivans. It’s more like a profession, I think—sort of like being a lawyer or a merchant—only there aren’t any new ones. The sorcerers are all thousands of years old. Mister Wolf says that maybe people have changed in some way so that they can’t become sorcerers anymore.”

Ce’Nedra had leaned back and was resting on her elbows, looking up at him. “Garion?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to kiss me?”

Garion’s heart started to pound.

Then Durnik’s voice called to them from not far away, and for one flaming instant Garion hated his old friend.

20

“Mistress Pol says that it’s time for you to come back to the tents,” Durnik told them when he reached the glade. There was a faint hint of amusement on his plain, dependable face, and he looked knowingly at the two of them.

Garion blushed and then grew angry with himself for blushing. Ce’Nedra, however, showed no concern at all.

“Have the Dryads come yet?” she asked, getting to her feet and brushing the grass from the back of her tunic.

“Not yet,” Durnik answered. “Wolf says that they should find us soon. There seems to be some kind of storm building up to the south, and Mistress Pol thought the two of you ought to come back.”

Garion glanced at the sky and saw a layer of inky clouds moving up from the south, staining the bright blue sky as they rolled ponderously northward. He frowned. “I’ve never seen clouds like that, have you, Durnik?”

Durnik looked up. “Strange,” he agreed.

Garion rolled up the two wet towels, and they started back down the stream. The clouds blotted out the sun, and the woods became suddenly very dark. The sense of watchfulness was still there, that wary awareness they had all felt since they had entered the wood, but now there was something else as well. The great trees stirred uneasily, and a million tiny messages seemed to pass among the rustling leaves.

“They’re afraid,” Ce’Nedra whispered. “Something’s frightening them.”

“What?” Durnik asked.

“The trees—they’re afraid of something. Can’t you feel it?”

He stared at her in perplexity.

Far above them the birds suddenly fell silent, and a chill breeze began to blow, carrying with it a foul reek of stagnant water and rotting vegetation.

“What’s that smell?” Garion asked, looking about nervously.

“Nyissa is south of here,” Ce’Nedra said. “It’s mostly swamps.”

“Is it that close?” Garion asked.

“Not really,” she said with a small frown. “It must be sixty leagues or more.”

“Would a smell carry that far?”

“It’s not likely,” Durnik said. “At least it wouldn’t be in Sendaria.”

“How far is it to the tents?” Ce’Nedra asked.

“About a half-mile,” Durnik answered.

“Maybe we should run,” she suggested.

Durnik shook his head. “The ground’s uneven,” he said, “and running in bad light’s dangerous. We can walk a bit faster, though.” They hurried on through the gathering gloom. The wind began to blow harder, and the trees trembled and bent with its force. The strange fear that seemed to permeate the wood grew stronger.

“There’s something moving over there,” Garion whispered urgently and pointed at the dark trees on the other side of the stream.

“I don’t see anything,” Ce’Nedra said.

“There, just beyond the tree with the large white limb. Is it a Dryad?”

A vague shape slid from tree to another in the half light. There was something chillingly wrong with the figure. Ce’Nedra stared at it with revulsion. “It’s not a Dryad,” she said. “It’s something alien.”

Durnik picked up a fallen limb and gripped it like a cudgel with both hands. Garion looked quickly around and saw another limb. He too armed himself.

Another figure shambled between two trees, a bit closer this time. “We’ll have to chance it,” Durnik said grimly. “Be careful, but run. Get the others. Now go!”

Garion took Ce’Nedra’s hand, and they started to run along the streambank, stumbling often. Durnik lagged farther and father behind, his two-handed club swinging warningly about him.

The figures were now all around them, and Garion felt the first surges of panic.

Then Ce’Nedra screamed. One of the figures had risen from behind a low bush directly in front of them. It was large and ill-shaped, and there was no face on the front of its head. Two eye-holes stared vacantly as it shambled forward with its half-formed hands reaching out for them. The entire figure was a dark gray mud color, and it was covered with rotting, stinking moss that adhered to its oozing body.

Without thinking, Garion thrust Ce’Nedra behind him and leaped to the attack. The first blow of his club struck the creature solidly in the side, and the club merely sank into the body with no visible effect. One of the outstretched hands touched his face, and he recoiled from that slimy touch with revulsion. Desperately he swung again and struck the thing solidly on the forearm. With horror he saw the arm break off at the elbow. The creature paused to pick up the still-moving arm.

Ce’Nedra screamed again, and Garion spun about. Another of the mud-men had come up behind her and had grasped her about the waist with both arms. It was starting to turn, lifting the struggling princess from the ground when Garion swung his club with all his might. The blow was not aimed at head or back, but rather at the ankles.

The mud-man toppled backward with both of its feet broken off. Its grip about Ce’Nedra’s waist, however, did not loosen as it fell.

Garion jumped forward, discarding his club and drawing his dagger. The substance of the thing was surprisingly tough. Vines and dead twigs were encased in the clay which gave it its shape. Feverishly, Garion cut away one of the arms and then tried to pull the screaming princess free. The other arm still clung to her. Almost sobbing with the need to hurry, Garion started hacking at the remaining arm.

“Look out!” Ce’Nedra shrieked. “Behind you!”

Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. The first mud-man was reaching for him. He felt a cold grip about his ankle. The arm he had just severed had inched its way across the ground and grasped him.

“Garion!” Barak’s voice roared from a short distance off.

“Over here!” Garion shouted. “Hurry!”

There was a crashing in the bushes, and the great, red-bearded Cherek appeared, sword in hand, with Hettar and Mandorallen close behind. With a mighty swing, Barak cut off the head of the first mud-man. It sailed through the air and landed with a sickening thump several yards away. The headless creature turned and groped blindly, trying to put its hands on its attacker. Barak paled visibly and then chopped away both outstretched arms. Still the thing shambled forward.

“The legs,” Garion said quickly. He bent and hacked at the clay hand about his ankle.

Barak lopped off the mud-man’s legs, and the thing fell. The dismembered pieces crawled toward him.

Other mud-men had appeared, and Hettar and Mandorallen were laying about them with their swords, filling the air with chunks and pieces of living clay.

Barak bent and ripped away the remaining arm which held Ce’Nedra.

Then he jerked the girl to her feet and thrust her at Garion. “Get her back to the tents!” he ordered. “Where’s Durnik?”

“He stayed behind to hold them off,” Garion said.

“We’ll go help him,” Barak said. “Run!”

Ce’Nedra was hysterical, and Garion had to drag her to the tents.

“What is it?” Aunt Pol demanded.

“Monsters out there in the woods,” Garion said, pushing Ce’Nedra at her. “They’re made out of mud, and you can’t kill them. They’ve got Durnik.” He dove into one of the tents and emerged a second later with his sword in his hand and fire in his brain.

“Garion!” Aunt Pol shouted, trying to disentangle herself from the sobbing princess. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve got to help Durnik,” he said.

“You stay where you are.”

“No!” he shouted. “Durnik’s my friend.” He dashed back toward the fight, brandishing his sword.

“Garion! Come back here!”

He ignored her and ran through the dark woods.

The fray was raging about a hundred yards from the tents. Barak, Hettar and Mandorallen were systematically chopping the slime-covered mud-men into chunks, and Silk darted in and out of the melee, his short sword leaving great gaping holes in the thick, moss-covered monsters. Garion plunged into the fight, his ears ringing and a kind of desperate exultation surging through him.

And then Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol were there with Ce’Nedra hovering ashen-faced and trembling behind them. Wolf’s eyes blazed, and he seemed to tower over them all as he gathered his will. He thrust one hand forward, palm up. “Fire!” he commanded, and a sizzling bolt of lightning shot upward from his hand into the whirling clouds overhead. The earth trembled with the violence of the shattering thunderclap. Garion reeled at the force of the roaring in his mind.

Aunt Pol raised her hand. “Water!” she said in a powerful voice. The clouds burst open, and rain fell so heavily that it seemed that the air itself had turned to water.

The mud-men, still mindlessly stumbling forward, began to ooze and dissolve in the thundering downpour. With a kind of sick fascination, Garion watched them disintegrate into sodden lumps of slime and rotten vegetation, surging and heaving as the pounding rain destroyed them.

Barak reached forward with his dripping sword and tentatively poked at the shapeless lump of clay that had been the head of one of their attackers. The lump broke apart, and a coiled snake unwound from its center. It raised itself as if to strike, and Barak chopped it in two.

Other snakes began to appear as the mud which had encased them dissolved in the roaring deluge.

“That one,” Aunt Pol said, pointing at a dull green reptile struggling to free itself from the clay. “Fetch it for me, Garion.”

“Me?” Garion gasped, his flesh crawling.

“I’ll do it,” Silk said. He picked up a forked stick and pinned the snake’s head down with it. Then he carefully took hold of the wet skin at the back of the serpent’s neck and lifted the twisting reptile.

“Bring it here,” Aunt Pol ordered, wiping the water from her face. Silk carried the snake to her and held it out. The forked tongue flickered nervously, and the dead eyes fixed on her.

“What does this mean?” she demanded of the snake.

The serpent hissed at her. Then in a voice that was a sibilant whisper it replied, “That, Polgara, is the affair of my mistress.”

Silk’s face blanched as the dripping snake spoke, and he tightened his grip.

“I see,” Aunt Pol said.

“Abandon this search,” the snake hissed. “My mistress will allow you to go no further.”

Aunt Pol laughed scornfully. “Allow?” she said. “Your mistress hasn’t the power to allow me anything.”

“My mistress is the queen of Nyissa,” the snake said in its whispering hiss. “Her power there is absolute. The ways of the serpent are not the ways of men, and my mistress is queen of the serpents. You will enter Nyissa at your own peril. We are patient and not afraid. We will await you where you least expect us. Our sting is a small injury, scarce noted, but it is death.”

“What’s Salmissra’s interest in this matter?” Aunt Pol asked.

The serpent’s flickering tongue darted at her. “She has not chosen to reveal that to me, and it is not in my nature to be curious. I have delivered my message and already received my reward. Now do with me as you wish.”

“Very well,” Aunt Pol said. She looked coldly at the snake, her face streaming in the heavy rain.

“Shall I kill it?” Silk asked, his face set and his fingers white-knuckled from the strain of holding the thick-coiling reptile.

“No,” she said quietly. “There’s no point in destroying so excellent a messenger.” She fixed the snake with a flinty look. “Return with these others to Salmissra,” she said. “Tell her that if she interferes again, I’ll come after her, and the deepest slime-pit in all Nyissa won’t hide her from my fury.”

“And my reward?” the snake asked.

“You have your life as a reward,” she said.

“That’s true,” the serpent hissed. “I will deliver your message, Polgara.”

“Put it down,” Aunt Pol told Silk.

The small man bent and lowered his arm to the ground. The snake uncoiled from about his arm, and Silk released it and jumped back. The snake glanced once at him, then slithered away.

“I think that’s enough rain, Pol,” Wolf said, mopping at his face. Aunt Pol waved her hand almost negligently, and the rain stopped as if a bucket had emptied itself.

“We have to find Durnik,” Barak reminded them.

“He was behind us.” Garion pointed back up the now-overflowing stream. His chest felt constricted with a cold fear at what they might find, but he steeled himself and led the way back into the trees.

“The smith is a good companion,” Mandorallen said. “I should not care to lose him.” There was a strange, subdued quality in the knight’s voice, and his face seemed abnormally pale in the dim light. The hand holding his great broadsword, however, was rock-steady. Only his eyes betrayed a kind of doubt Garion had never seen there before.

Water dripped around them as they walked through the sodden woods. “It was about here,” Garion said, looking around. “I don’t see any sign of him.”

“I’m up here.” Durnik’s voice came from above them. He was a goodly distance up a large oak tree and was peering down. “Are they gone?” He carefully began climbing down the slippery tree trunk. “The rain came just in time,” he said, jumping down the last few feet. “I was starting to have a little trouble keeping them out of the tree.”

Quickly, without a word, Aunt Pol embraced the good man, and then, as if embarrassed by that sudden gesture, she began to scold him. Durnik endured her words patiently, and there was a strange expression on his face.

21

Garion’s sleep that night was troubled. He awoke frequently, shuddering at the remembered touch of the mud-men. But in time the night, as all nights must, came to an end, and the morning dawned clear and bright. He drowsed for a while, rolled in his blankets, until Ce’Nedra came to get him up.

“Garion,” she said softly, touching his shoulder, “are you awake?” He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Good morning.”

“Lady Polgara says that you’re supposed to get up,” she told him.

Garion yawned, stretched and sat up. He glanced out the tent flap and saw that the sun was shining.

“She’s teaching me how to cook,” Ce’Nedra said rather proudly.

“That’s nice,” Garion told her, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

She looked at him for a long moment, her small face serious and her green eyes intent. “Garion.”

“Yes?”

“You were very brave yesterday.”

He shrugged slightly. “I’ll probably get a scolding for it today.”

“What for?”

“Aunt Pol and my grandfather don’t like it when I try to be brave,” he explained. “They think I’m still a child, and they don’t want me to get hurt.”

“Garion!” Aunt Pol called from the small fire where she was cooking. “I need more firewood.”

Garion sighed and rolled out of his blankets. He pulled on his half boots, belted on his sword and went off into the woods.

It was still damp under the huge oaks from the downpour Aunt Pol had called down the day before, and dry wood was hard to find. He wandered about, pulling limbs out from under fallen trees and from beneath overhanging rocks. The silent trees watched him, but they seemed somehow less unfriendly this morning.

“What are you doing?” a light voice came from above him. He looked up quickly, his hand going to his sword.

A girl was standing on a broad limb just over his head. She wore a belted tunic and sandals. Her hair was a tawny color, her gray eyes were curious, and her pale skin had that faint greenish hue to it that identified her as a Dryad. In her left hand she held a bow, and her right held an arrow against the taut string. The arrow was pointed directly at Garion.

He carefully took his hand away from his sword. “I’m gathering wood,” he said.

“What for?”

“My aunt needs it for the fire,” he explained.

“Fire?” The girl’s face hardened, and she half drew her bow. “A small one,” he said quickly, “for cooking.”

“Fire isn’t permitted here,” the girl said sternly.

“You’ll have to explain that to Aunt Pol,” Garion told her. “I just do what I’m told.”

The girl whistled, and another girl came from behind a nearby tree. She also carried a bow. Her hair was almost as red as Ce’Nedra’s, and her skin was also touched with the color of leaves.

“It says it’s gathering wood,” the first girl reported, “for a fire. Do you think I should kill it?”

“Xantha says we’re supposed to find out who they are,” the red-haired one said thoughtfully. “If it turns out that they don’t have any business here, then you can kill it.”

“Oh, very well,” the tawny-haired girl agreed, with obvious disappointment. “But don’t forget that I found this one. When the time comes, I get to kill it.”

Garion felt the hair beginning to rise on the back of his neck.

The red-haired one whistled, and a half dozen other armed Dryads drifted out of the trees. They were all quite small, and their hair was various shades of reds and golds, not unlike the color of autumn leaves.

They gathered about Garion, giggling and chattering as they examined him.

“That one is mine,” the tawny-haired Dryad said, climbing down from the tree. “I found it, and Xera says that I get to kill it.”

“It looks healthy,” one of the others observed, “and quite tame. Maybe we should keep it. Is it a male?”

Another one giggled. “Let’s check and find out.”

“I’m a male,” Garion said quickly, blushing in spite of himself.

“It seems a shame to waste it,” one remarked. “Maybe we could keep it for a while and then kill it.”

“It’s mine,” the tawny-haired Dryad stated stubbornly, “and if I want to kill it. I will.” She took hold of Garion’s arm possessively.

“Let’s go look at the others,” the one called Xera suggested. “They’re building fires, and we’ll want to stop that.”

“Fires?” several of the others gasped, and they all glared at Garion accusingly.

“Only a small one,” Garion said quickly.

“Bring it along,” Xera ordered and started off through the Wood toward the tents. Far overhead the trees murmured to each other. Aunt Pol was waiting calmly when they reached the clearing where the tents were. She looked at the Dryads clustered around Garion without changing expression. “Welcome, ladies,” she said.

The Dryads began whispering to each other.

“Ce’Nedra!” the one called Xera exclaimed.

“Cousin Xera,” Ce’Nedra replied, and the two ran to embrace each other. The other Dryads came out a little farther into the clearing, looking nervously at the fire.

Ce’Nedra spoke quickly with Xera, explaining to her cousin who they were, and Xera motioned for the others to come closer. “It seems that these are friends,” she said. “We’ll take them to my mother, Queen Xantha.”

“Does that mean that I won’t get to kill this one?” The tawny-haired Dryad demanded petulantly, pointing a small finger at Garion.

“I’m afraid not,” Xera answered.

The tawny one stamped away, pouting. Garion breathed a sigh of relief.

Then Mister Wolf came out of one of the tents and looked at the cluster of Dryads with a broad smile.

“It’s Belgarath!” one of the Dryads squealed and ran to him happily. She threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him soundly. “Did you bring us any sweets?” she demanded.

The old man put on a sober expression and began rummaging through his many pockets. Bits of sweetmeats began to appear just as quickly disappeared as the Dryads gathered about him, snatching them as fast as he took them from his pockets.

“Have you got any new stories for us?” one of the Dryads asked.

“Many stories,” Wolf told her, touching one finger to the side of his nose slyly. “But we ought to wait so your sisters can hear them too, shouldn’t we?”

“We want one just for ourselves,” the Dryad said.

“And what would you give me for this special story?”

“Kisses,” the Dryad offered promptly. “Five kisses from each of us.”

“I’ve got a very good story,” Wolf bargained. “It’s worth more than five. Let’s say ten.”

“Eight,” the Tittle Dryad countered.

“All right,” Wolf agreed. “Eight sounds about right.”

“I see you’ve been here before, Old Wolf,” Aunt Pol remarked dryly.

“I visit from time to time,” he admitted with a bland expression.

“Those sweets aren’t good for them, you know,” she chided.

“A little bit won’t hurt them, Pol,” he said, “and they like them very much. A Dryad will do almost anything for sweets.”

“You’re disgusting,” she told him.

The Dryads were all clustered around Mister Wolf, looking almost like a garden of spring flowers—all, that is, except for the tawny one who’d captured Garion. She stood a bit apart, sulking and fingering the point of her arrow. She finally came over to Garion. “You’re not thinking about running away, are you?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” Garion denied emphatically.

She sighed with disappointment. “I don’t suppose you’d consider it, would you—as a special favor to me?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She sighed again, bitterly this time. “I never get to have any fun,” she complained and went to join the others.

Silk emerged from a tent, moving slowly and carefully; and after the Dryads had become accustomed to him, Durnik appeared.

“They’re just children, aren’t they?” Garion commented to Aunt Pol.

“They seem to be,” she said, “but they’re much older than they look. A Dryad lives as long as her tree does, and oak trees live for a long time.”

“Where are the boy Dryads?” he asked. “All I see are girls.”

“There aren’t any boy Dryads, dear,” she explained, returning to her cooking.

“Then how—? I mean—” He faltered and felt his ears growing hot.

“They catch human males for that,” she said. “Travelers and the like.”

“Oh.” He delicately let the subject drop.

After they had eaten breakfast and carefully quenched their fire with water from the stream, they saddled their horses and started off through the Wood. Mister Wolf walked ahead with the tiny Dryads still gathered around him, laughing and chattering like happy children. The murmuring of the trees about them was no longer unfriendly, and they moved through a kind of welcoming rustle from a million leaves.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached a large clearing in the center of the Wood. Standing alone in the middle of the clearing was an oak so large that Garion could hardly accept the idea that anything so enormous could be alive. Here and there in its mossy trunk were openings almost like caverns, and its lower limbs were as broad as highways and they spread out to shade nearly the entire clearing. There was about the tree a sense of vast age and a patient wisdom. Tentatively Garion felt a faint touch on his mind, almost like the soft brush of a leaf against his face. The touch was unlike anything he had ever felt before, but it also seemed to welcome him.

The tree was literally alive with Dryads, clustering randomly on the limbs like blossoms. Their laughter and girlish chatter filled the air like birdsongs.

“I’ll tell my mother you’ve arrived,” the one called Xera said and went toward the tree.

Garion and the others dismounted and stood uncertainly near their horses. From overhead Dryads peered curiously down at them, whispering among themselves and giggling often.

For some reason the frank, mirthful stares of the Dryads made Garion feel very self conscious. He moved closer to Aunt Pol and noticed that the others were also clustering around her as if unconsciously seeking her protection.

“Where’s the princess?” she asked.

“She’s just over there, Mistress Pol,” Durnik answered, “visiting with that group of Dryads.”

“Keep your eye on her,” Aunt Pol said. “And where’s my vagrant father?”

“Near the tree,” Garion replied. “The Dryads seem very fond of him.”

“The old fool,” Aunt Pol said darkly.

Then, from a hollow in the tree some distance above the first broad limbs, another Dryad appeared. Instead of the short tunic the others wore, this one was garbed in a flowing green gown, and her golden hair was caught in with a circlet of what appeared to be mistletoe. Gracefully she descended to the ground.

Aunt Pol went forward to meet her, and the others trailed behind at a respectful distance.

“Dear Polgara,” the Dryad said warmly, “it’s been so long.”

“We all have our duties, Xantha,” Aunt Pol explained.

The two embraced fondly.

“Have you brought us these as gifts?” Queen Xantha asked, looking admiringly at the men standing behind Aunt Pol.

Aunt Pol laughed. “I’m afraid not, Xantha. I’d be happy to give them to you, but I think I may need them later.”

“Ah well,” the queen said with a mock sigh. “Welcome all,” she greeted them. “You’ll sup with us, of course.”

“We’d be delighted,” Aunt Pol said. Then she took the queen’s arm. “Can we talk for a moment first, Xantha?” The two moved apart from the others and spoke quietly together as the Dryads carried bundles and sacks down from the hollows in the tree and began to lay a feast on the grass beneath the broad limbs.

The meal which was spread out looked peculiar. The common food of the Dryads seemed to consist entirely of fruits, nuts and mushrooms, all prepared without any cooking.

Barak sat down and looked sourly at what was offered. “No meat,” he grumbled.

“It heats up your blood anyway,” Silk told him.

Barak sipped suspiciously at his cup. “Water,” he said with distaste.

“You might find it a novelty to go to bed sober for a change,” Aunt Pol observed as she rejoined them.

“I’m sure it’s unhealthy,” Barak said.

Ce’Nedra seated herself near Queen Xantha. She obviously wanted to talk to her, but since there was no opportunity for privacy, she finally spoke out in front of them all. “I have a favor to ask, your Highness.”

“You may ask, child,” the queen said, smiling.

“It’s only a small thing,” Ce’Nedra explained. “I’ll need sanctuary for a few years. My father’s growing unreasonable in his old age. I’ll have to stay away from him until he comes to his senses.”

“In what way is Ran Borune growing unreasonable?” Xantha asked.

“He won’t let me go out of the palace, and he insists that I go to Riva on my sixteenth birthday,” Ce’Nedra said in an outraged tone. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“And why does he want you to go to Riva?”

“Some foolish treaty. No one even remembers the reason for it.”

“If it’s a treaty, it must be honored, dear,” the queen said gently.

“I won’t go to Riva,” Ce’Nedra announced. “I’ll stay here until after my sixteenth birthday’s passed, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“No, dear,” the queen said firmly, “you won’t.”

“What?” Ce’Nedra was stunned.

“We have a treaty too,” Xantha explained. “Our agreement with the House of Borune is most explicit. Our Wood remains inviolate only for so long as the female descendants of the Princess Xoria stay with the Borunes. It’s your duty to remain with your father and to obey him.”

“But I’m a Dryad,” Ce’Nedra wailed. “I belong here.”

“You’re also human,” the queen said, “and you belong with your father.”

“I don’t want to go to Riva,” Ce’Nedra protested.

“It’s degrading.” Xantha looked at her sternly. “Don’t be a foolish child,” she said. “Your duties are clear. You have a duty as a Dryad, as a Borune, and as an Imperial Princess. Your silly little whims are quite beside the point. If you have an obligation to go to Riva, then you must go.”

Ce’Nedra appeared shaken by the finality of the queen’s tone, and she sulked in silence after that.

Then the queen turned to Mister Wolf. “There are many rumors abroad,” she said, “and some of them have even reached us here. I think something momentous is happening out there in the world of the humans, and it may even touch our lives in this Wood. I think I should know what this thing is.”

Wolf nodded gravely. “I expect you should,” he agreed. “The Orb of Aldur has been stolen from the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King by Zedar the Apostate.”

Xantha caught her breath. “How?” she demanded.

Wolf spread his hands. “We don’t know. Zedar’s trying to reach the kingdoms of the Angaraks with the Orb. Once he’s there, he’ll try to use its power to awaken Torak.”

“That must never happen,” the Queen said. “What’s being done?”

“The Alorns and the Sendars are getting ready for war,” Wolf replied. “The Arends have promised aid, and Ran Borune has been advised, though he didn’t make any promises. The Borunes can be difficult at times.” He glanced at the pouting Ce’Nedra.

“Then it means war?” the queen asked sadly.

“I’m afraid so, Xantha,” he said. “I’m pursuing Zedar with these others, and I hope we can catch him and get the Orb back before he can reach Torak with it. If we’re successful, I think the Angaraks will attack the West anyway out of desperation. Certain ancient prophecies are getting close to their fulfillment. There are signs everywhere, and even the twisted perceptions of the Grolims can read them.”

The Queen sighed. “I’ve seen some of the signs myself, Belgarath,” she said. “I’d hoped I was wrong. What does this Zedar look like?”

“A great deal like me,” Wolf told her. “We served the same Master for a very long time, and that puts a certain mark on people.”

“Someone like that passed through the upper reaches of our Wood last week and crossed over into Nyissa,” Xantha said. “If we’d known, we might have been able to detain him.”

“We’re closer than I thought, then. Was he alone?”

“No,” Xantha reported. “He had two of the servants of Torak with him and a small boy.”

Wolf looked startled. “A boy?”

“Yes-about six years old or so.”

The old man frowned, and then his eyes opened very wide. “So that’s how he did it,” he exclaimed. “I never thought of that.”

“We can show you where he crossed the river into Nyissa,” the queen offered. “I should warn you though that it’s going to be dangerous for so large a party to go there. Salmissra has eyes everywhere in those swamps.”

“I’ve already made plans for that,” Mister Wolf assured her. He turned to Barak. “Are you sure that ship’s going to be waiting at the mouth of the River of the Woods?” he asked.

“She’ll be there,” Barak rumbled. “Her captain’s a dependable man.”

“Good,” Wolf said. “Silk and I’ll pick up Zedar’s trail then, and the rest of you can follow the river to the sea. Take the ship down the coast and then up the River of the Serpent to Sthiss Tor. We’ll meet you there.”

“Dost thou think it wise to separate our party in so perilous a place as Nyissa?” Mandorallen asked.

“It’s necessary,” Wolf said. “The snake people are at home in their jungles, and they don’t like outsiders. Silk and I can move swiftly and with greater stealth if we’re alone.”

“Where do you want us to meet you?” Barak asked.

“There’s a Drasnian trade enclave near the wharves in Sthiss Tor,” Silk said. “Several of the merchants there are my friends. Just ask for Radek of Boktor. If we can’t meet you there, we’ll leave word of our whereabouts with the merchants.”

“What about me?” Ce’Nedra asked.

“I think you’ll have to stay with us,” Aunt Pol answered.

“There’s no reason for me to go to Nyissa,” Ce’Nedra said.

“You’ll go because I tell you to go,” Aunt Pol told the tiny girl. “I’m not your father, Ce’Nedra. Your pouting doesn’t wring my heart, and your fluttering eyelashes don’t really impress me.”

“I’ll run away,” Ce’Nedra threatened.

“That would be very foolish,” Aunt Pol said coldly. “I’d just have to bring you back again, and you’d find that unpleasant. Affairs in the world just now are much too serious to allow the whims of one spoiled little girl to have very much importance. You’ll stay with me, and you will stand in the Hall of the Rivan King on your sixteenth birthday even if I have to take you there in chains. We’re all much too busy to pamper you any further.”

Ce’Nedra stared at her, and then she suddenly burst into tears.

22

The next morning before the sun rose and while filmy mist still hovered beneath the limbs of the great oaks, Silk and Mister Wolf made preparations to leave for Nyissa. Garion sat on a log, somberly watching the old man bundle up some food.

“Why so glum?” Wolf asked him.

“I wish we didn’t have to separate this way,” Garion said.

“It’s only for a couple of weeks.”

“I know, but I still wish—” Garion shrugged.

“Keep an eye on your Aunt for me while I’m gone,” Wolf said, tying up his bundle.

“All right.”

“And keep your amulet on. Nyissa’s a dangerous place.”

“I’ll remember,” Garion promised. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, grandfather?”

The old man looked at him gravely, his white beard glistening in the misty light. “I’m always careful, Garion,” he said.

“It’s getting late, Belgarath,” Silk called, leading two horses up to where the two of them were talking.

Wolf nodded. “We’ll see you in two weeks in Sthiss Tor,” he said to Garion.

Garion embraced the old man quickly and then turned away so that he wouldn’t have to watch the two of them leave. He crossed the clearing to where Mandorallen stood pensively looking out into the mist.

“Parting is a melancholy business,” the knight said moodily. He sighed.

“It’s more than that though, isn’t it, Mandorallen?” Garion asked.

“Thou art a perceptive lad.”

“What’s been troubling you? You’ve been acting strangely for the last two days.”

“I have discovered a strange feeling within myself, Garion, and I like it not.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Fear,” Mandorallen said shortly.

“Fear? Of what?”

“The clay men. I know not why, but their very existence struck a chill into my soul.”

“They frightened us all, Mandorallen,” Garion told him.

“I have never been afraid before,” Mandorallen said quietly.

“Never?”

“Not even as a child. The clay men made my very flesh creep, and I wanted most desperately to run away.”

“But you didn’t,” Garion pointed out. “You stayed and fought.”

“That time yes,” Mandorallen admitted. “But what of next time? Now that fear has found its way into my spirit, who can say when it might return? In some desperate hour when the outcome of our quest hangs in the balance, might not vile fear lay its cold hand upon my heart and unman me? It is that possibility which doth gnaw upon my soul. I am sorely ashamed of my weakness and my fault.”

“Ashamed? For being human? You’re too hard on yourself, Mandorallen.”

“Thou art kind thus to excuse me, lad, but my failing is too grievous for such simple forgiveness. I have striven for perfection and struck, I think, not too far off the mark; but now that perfection, which was the marvel of the world, is flawed. It is a bitter thing to accept.” He turned, and Garion was startled to see tears standing in his eyes. “Wilt thou assist me into mine armor?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I feel profoundly the need to be encased in steel. It will perchance strengthen my cowardly heart.”

“You’re not a coward,” Garion insisted.

Mandorallen sighed sadly. “Only time can reveal that.”

When it was time to leave, Queen Xantha spoke briefly to them. “I wish you all well,” she said. “I’d help you in your search if possible, but a Dryad’s bound to her tree by ties which can’t be broken. My tree here is very old, and I must care for him.” She looked fondly up at the vast oak rising into the morning mist. “We’re in bondage to each other, but it’s a bondage of love.”

Once again Garion felt that same faint touch on his mind that he had experienced the day before when he had first seen the huge tree. There was a sense of farewell in that touch, and what seemed to be a warning.

Queen Xantha exchanged a startled glance with Aunt Pol and then looked at Garion rather closely. “Some of my younger daughters will guide you to the river that marks the southern border of our Wood,” she continued. “From there your way to the sea is clear.” Her voice showed no sign of any change, but her eyes seemed thoughtful.

“Thank you, Xantha,” Aunt Pol said warmly, embracing the Dryad queen. “If you can send word to the Borunes that Ce’Nedra’s safe and with me, it might relieve the Emperor’s mind somewhat.”

“I will, Polgara,” Xantha promised.

They mounted then and followed the half dozen or so Dryads who flitted ahead of them like butterflies, guiding them southward into the forest. For some reason Garion felt profoundly depressed, and he paid little attention to his surroundings as he rode beside Durnik along the winding forest trail.

About midmorning it began to grow darker under the trees, and they rode in silence through the now-somber wood. The warning Garion had seemed to hear in Queen Xantha’s clearing echoed somehow in the creak of limbs and the rustling of leaves.

“The weather must be changing,” Durnik said, looking up. “I wish I could see the sky.”

Garion nodded and tried to shake off the sense of impending danger. Mandorallen in his armor and Barak in his mail shirt rode at the head of the party, and Hettar in his horsehide jacket with steel plates riveted to it rode at the rear. The ominous sense of foreboding seemed to have reached them all, and they rode warily with their hands near their weapons and their eyes searching for trouble.

Then quite suddenly Tolnedran legionnaires were all around them, rising from the bushes or stepping out from behind trees. They made no attempt to attack, but stood in their brightly polished breastplates with their short spears at the ready.

Barak swore, and Mandorallen reined in his charger sharply. “Stand aside!” he ordered the soldiers, lowering his lance.

“Easy,” Barak cautioned.

The Dryads, after one startled look at the soldiers, melted into the gloomy woods.

“What thinkest thou, Lord Barak?” Mandorallen asked blithely. “They cannot be over a hundred. Shall we attack them?”

“One of these days you and I are going to have to have a long talk about a few things,” Barak said. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Hettar was edging closer, then he sighed. “Well, I suppose we might as well get on with it.” He tightened the straps on his shield and loosened his sword in its sheath. “What do you think, Mandorallen? Should we give them a chance to run away?”

“A charitable suggestion, Lord Barak,” Mandorallen agreed.

Then, some distance up the trail, a body of horsemen rode out from under the shadowy trees. Their leader was a large man wearing a blue cloak trimmed with silver. His breastplate and helmet were inlaid with gold, and he rode a prancing chestnut stallion whose hooves churned the damp leaves lying on the ground. “Splendid,” he said as he rode up. “Absolutely splendid.”

Aunt Pol fixed the newcomer with a cold eye. “Don’t the legions have anything better to do than to waylay travelers?” she demanded.

“This is my legion, Madam,” the man in the blue cloak said arrogantly, “and it does what I tell it to. I see that you have the Princess Ce’Nedra with you.”

“Where I go and with whom is my concern, your Grace,” Ce’Nedra said loftily. “It’s of no concern to the Grand Duke Kador of the House of Vordue.”

“Your father is most concerned, Princess,” Kador said. “All Tolnedra’s searching for you. Who are these people?”

Garion tried with a dark scowl and a shake of his head to warn her, but it was too late.

“The two knights who lead our party are Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, and Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim,” she announced. “The Algar warrior who guards our rear is Hettar, son of Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The lady—”

“I can speak for myself, dear,” Aunt Pol said smoothly. “I’m curious to know what brings the Grand Duke of Vordue so far into southern Tolnedra.”

“I have interests here, Madam,” Kador said.

“Evidently,” Aunt Pol replied.

“All the legions of the Empire are searching for the princess, but it’s I who have found her.”

“I’m amazed to find a Vorduvian so willing to aid in the search for a Borune princess,” Aunt Pol observed. “Especially considering the centunes of enmity between your two houses.”

“Shall we cease this idle banter?” Kador suggested icily. “My motives are my own affair.”

“And unsavory, no doubt,” she added.

“I think you forget yourself, Madam,” Kador said. “I am, after all, who I am—and more to the point, who I will become.”

“And who will you become, your Grace?” she inquired.

“I will be Ran Vordue, Emperor of Tolnedra,” Kador announced.

“Oh? And just what’s the future Emperor of Tolnedra doing in the Wood of the Dryads?”

“I’m doing what’s necessary to protect my interests,” Kador said stiffly. “For the moment, it’s essential that the Princess Ce’Nedra be in my custody.”

“My father may have something to say about that, Duke Kador,” Ce’Nedra said, “and about this ambition of yours.”

“What Ran Borune says is of no concern to me, your Highness,” Kador told her. “Tolnedra needs me, and no Borune trick is going to deny me the Imperial Crown. It’s obvious that the old man plans to marry you to a Honeth or a Horbite to raise some spurious claim to the throne. That could complicate matters, but I intend to keep things simple.”

“By marrying me yourself?” Ce’Nedra asked scornfully. “You’ll never live that long.”

“No,” Kador said. “I wouldn’t be interested in a Dryad wife. Unlike the Borunes, the House of Vordue believes in keeping its line pure and uncontaminated.”

“So you’re going to hold me prisoner?” Ce’Nedra asked.

“That’d be impossible, I’m afraid,” Duke Kador told her. “The Emperor has ears everywhere. It’s really a shame you ran away just when you did, your Highness. I’d gone to a great expense to get one of my agents into the Imperial kitchen and to obtain a quantity of a rare Nyissan poison. I’d even taken the trouble to compose a letter of sympathy to your father.”

“How considerate of you,” Ce’Nedra said, her face turning pale.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to be more direct now,” Kador went on. “A sharp knife and a few feet of dirt should end your unfortunate involvement in Tolnedran politics. I’m very sorry, Princess. There’s nothing personal in it, you understand, but I have to protect my interests.”

“Thy plan, Duke Kador, hath one small flaw,” Mandorallen said, carefully leaning his lance against a tree.

“I fail to see it, Baron,” Kador said smugly.

“Throe error lay in rashly coming within reach of my sword,” Mandorallen told him. “Thy head is forfeit now, and a man with no head has little need of a crown.”

Garion knew that a part of Mandorallen’s brashness arose from his desperate need to prove to himself that he was no longer afraid.

Kador looked at the knight apprehensively. “You wouldn’t do that,” he said without much certainty. “You’re too badly outnumbered.”

“Thou art imprudent to think so,” Mandorallen said. “I am the hardiest knight on life and fully armed. Thy soldiers will be as blades of grass before me. Thou art doomed, Kador.” And with that he drew his great sword.

“It was bound to happen,” Barak said wryly to Hettar and drew his own sword.

“I don’t think we’ll do that,” a new voice announced harshly. A familiar black-robed man rode out from behind a nearby tree on a sable-colored horse. He muttered a few quick words and gestured sharply with his right hand. Garion felt a dark rush and a strange roaring in his mind. Mandorallen’s sword spun from his grip.

“My thanks, Asharak,” Kador said in a relieved tone. “I hadn’t anticipated that.”

Mandorallen pulled off his mailed gauntlet and nursed his hand as if he had been struck a heavy blow. Hettar’s eyes narrowed, and then went strangely blank. The Murgo’s black mount glanced curiously at him once and then looked away almost contemptuously.

“Well, Sha-dar,” Asharak gloated with an ugly smirk on his scarred face, “would you like to try that again?”

Hettar’s face had a sick look of revulsion on it. “It’s not a horse,” he said. “It looks like a horse, but it’s something else.”

“Yes,” Asharak agreed. “Quite different, really. You can sink yourself into its mind if you want, but I don’t think you’ll like what you find there.” He swung down from his saddle and walked toward them, his eyes burning. He stopped in front of Aunt Pol and made an ironic bow. “And so we meet again, Polgara.”

“You’ve been busy, Chamdar,” she replied.

Kador, in the act of dismounting, seemed startled. “You know this woman, Asharak?”

“His name is Chamdar, Duke Kador,” Aunt Pol said, “and he’s a Grolim priest. You thought he was only buying your honor, but you’ll soon find that he’s bought much more than that.” She straightened in her saddle, the white lock at her brow suddenly incandescently bright. “You’ve been an interesting opponent, Chamdar. I’ll almost miss you.”

“Don’t do it, Polgara,” the Grolim said quickly. “I’ve got my hand around the boy’s heart. The instant you start to gather your will, he’ll die. I know who he is and how much you value him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “An easy thing to say, Chamdar.”

“Would you like to test it?” he mocked.

“Get down off your horses,” Kador ordered sharply, and the legionnaires all took a threatening step forward.

“Do as he says,” Aunt Pol ordered quietly.

“It’s been a long chase, Polgara,” Chamdar said. “Where’s Belgarath?”

“Not far,” she told him. “Perhaps if you start running now, you can get away before he comes back.”

“No, Polgara.” He laughed. “I’d know if he were that close.” He turned and looked intently at Garion. “You’ve grown, boy. We haven’t had a chance to talk for quite some time, have we?”

Garion stared back at the scarred face of his enemy, alert, but strangely not afraid. The contest between them for which he had been waiting all his life was about to begin, and something deep within his mind told him that he was ready.

Chamdar looked into his eyes, probing. “He doesn’t know, does he?” he asked Aunt Pol. And then he laughed. “How like a woman you are, Polgara. You’ve kept the secret from him simply for the sake of the secret itself. I should have taken him away from you years ago.”

“Leave him alone, Chamdar,” she ordered.

He ignored that. “What’s his real name, Polgara? Have you told him yet.

“That doesn’t concern you,” she said flatly.

“But it does, Polgara. I’ve watched over him almost as carefully as you have.” He laughed again. “You’ve been his mother, but I’ve been his father. Between us we’ve raised a fine son—but I still want to know his real name.”

She straightened. “I think this has gone far enough, Chamdar,” she said coldly. “What are your terms?”

“No terms, Polgara,” the Grolim answered. “You and the boy and I are going to the place where Lord Torak awaits the moment of his awakening. My hand will be about the boy’s heart the entire time, so you’ll be suitably docile. Zedar and Ctuchik are going to destroy each other fighting over the Orb—unless Belgarath finds them first and destroys them himself—but the Orb doesn’t really interest me. It’s been you and the boy I’ve been after from the very beginning.”

“You weren’t really trying to stop us, then?” she asked.

Chamdar laughed. “Stop you? I’ve been trying to help you. Ctuchik and Zedar both have underlings here in the West. I’ve delayed and deceived them at every turn just so you could get through. I knew that sooner or later Belgarath would find it necessary to pursue the Orb alone, and when that happened, I could take you and the boy.”

“For what purpose?”

“You still don’t see?” he asked. “The first two things Lord Torak sees when he awakens will be his bride and his mortal enemy, kneeling in chains before him. I’ll be exalted above all for so royal a gift.”

“Let the others go then,” she said.

“The others don’t concern me,” Chamdar said. “I’ll leave them with the noble Kador, I don’t imagine he’ll find it convenient to keep them alive, but that’s up to him. I’ve got what I want.”

“You swine!” Aunt Pol raged helplessly. “You filthy swine!”

With a bland smile Chamdar slapped her sharply across the face. “You really must learn to control your tongue, Polgara,” he said. Garion’s brain seemed to explode. Dimly he saw Durnik and the others being restrained by the legionnaires, but no soldier seemed to consider him a danger. He started toward his enemy without thinking, reaching for his dagger.

“Not that way!” It was that dry voice in his mind that had always been there, but the voice was no longer passive, disinterested.

“I’ll kill him!” Garion said silently in the vaults of his brain.

“Not that way!” the voice warned again. “They won’t let you—not with your knife. ”

“How, then?”

“Remember what Belgarath said—the Will and the Word.”

“I don’t know how I can’t do that. ”

“You are who you are. I’ll show you. Look!” Unbidden and so clearly that it was almost as if he were watching it happen, the image of the God Torak writhing in the fire of Aldur’s Orb rose before his eyes. He saw Torak’s face melting and his fingers aflame. Then the face shifted and altered until it was the face of the dark watcher whose mind had been linked with his for as long as he could remember. He felt a terrible force building in him as the image of Chamdar wrapped in seething flame stood before him.

“Now!” the voice commanded him. “Do it!”

It required a blow. His rage would be satisfied with nothing less. He leaped at the smirking Grolim so quickly that none of the legionnaires could stop him. He swung his right arm, and at the instant his palm struck Chamdar’s scarred left cheek, he felt all the force that had built in him surge out from the silvery mark on his palm. “Burn!” he commanded, willing it to happen.

Taken off guard, Chamdar jerked back. A momentary anger began to appear on his face, and then his eyes widened with an awful realization. For an instant he stared at Garion in absolute horror, and then his face contorted with agony. “No!” he cried out hoarsely, and then his cheek began to smoke and seethe where the mark on Garion’s hand had touched it. Wisps of smoke drifted from his black robe as if it had suddenly been laid on a red-hot stove. Then he shrieked and clutched at his face. His fingers burst into flame. He shrieked again and fell writhing to the damp earth.

“Stand still!” It was Aunt Pol’s voice this time, sounding sharply inside Garion’s head.

Chamdar’s entire face was engulfed in flames now, and his shrieks echoed in the dim wood. The legionnaires recoiled from the burning man, and Garion suddenly felt sick. He started to turn away.

“Don’t weaken!” Aunt Pol’s voice told him. “Keep your will on him!” Garion stood over the blazing Grolim. The wet leaves on the ground smoked and smoldered where Chamdar thrashed and struggled with the fire that was consuming him. Flames were spurting from his chest, and his shrieks grew weaker. With an enormous effort, he struggled to his feet and held out his flaming hands imploringly to Garion. His face was gone, and greasy black smoke rolled off his body, drifting low to the ground. “Master,” he croaked, “have mercy!”

Garion’s heart wrenched with pity. All the years of that secret closeness between them pulled at him.

“No!” Aunt Pol’s stern voice commanded. “He’ll kill you if you release him!”

“I can’t do it,” Garion said. “I’m going to stop it.” As once before, he began to gather his will, feeling it build in him like some vast tide of pity and compassion. He half reached toward Chamdar, focusing his thought on healing.

“Garion!” Aunt Pol’s voice rang. “It was Chamdar who killed your parents!”

The thought forming in his mind froze.

“Chamdar killed Geran and Ildera. He burned them alive just as he’s burning now. Avenge them, Garion! Keep the fire on him!”

All the rage and fury he had carried within him since Wolf had told him of the deaths of his parents flamed in his brain. The fire, which a moment before he had almost extinguished, was suddenly not enough. The hand he had begun to reach out in compassion stiffened. In terrible anger he raised it, palm out. A strange sensation tingled in that palm, and then his own hand burst into flames. There was no pain, not even a feeling of heat, as a bright blue fire burst from the mark on his hand and wreathed up through his fingers. The blue fire became brighter—so bright that he could not even look at it.

Even in the extremity of his mortal agony, Chamdar the Grolim recoiled from that blazing hand. With a hoarse, despairing cry he tried to cover his blackened face, staggered back a few steps, and then, like a burning house, he collapsed in upon himself and sank back to earth.

“It is done!” Aunt Pol’s voice came again. “They are avenged!” And then her voice rang in the vaults of his mind with a soaring exultation. “Belgarion!” she sang. “My Belgarion!”

Ashen-faced Kador, trembling in every limb, backed in horror from the still-burning heap that had been Chamdar the Grolim. “Sorcery!” he gasped.

“Indeed,” Aunt Pol said coolly. “I don’t think you’re ready for this kind of game yet, Kador.”

The frightened legionnaires were also backing away, their eyes bulging at what they had just seen.

“I think the Emperor’s going to take this whole affair rather seriously,” Aunt Pol told them. “When he hears that you were going to kill his daughter, he’ll probably take it personally.”

“It wasn’t us,” one of the soldiers said quickly. “It was Kador. We were just following orders.”

“He might accept that as an excuse,” she said doubtfully. “If it were me, though, I’d take him some kind of gift to prove my loyalty—something appropriate to the circumstances.” She looked significantly at Kador.

Several of the legionnaires took her meaning, drew their swords and moved into position around the Grand Duke.

“What are you doing?” Kador demanded of them.

“I think you’ve lost more than a throne today, Kador,” Aunt Pol said.

“You can’t do this,” Kador told the legionnaires.

One of the soldiers put the point of his sword against the Grand Duke’s throat. “We’re loyal to the Emperor, my Lord,” he said grimly. “We’re placing you under arrest for high treason, and if you give us any trouble, we’ll settle for just delivering your head to Tol Honeth—if you take my meaning.”

One of the legion officers knelt respectfully before Ce’Nedra. “Your Imperial Highness,” he said to her, “how may we serve you?”

The princess, still pale and trembling, drew herself up. “Deliver this traitor to my father,” she said in a ringing voice, “and tell him what happened here. Inform him that you have arrested the Grand Duke Kador at my command.”

“At once, your Highness,” the officer said, springing to his feet. “Chain the prisoner!” he ordered sharply, then turned back to Ce’Nedra. “May we provide you an escort to your destination, your Highness?”

“That won’t be necessary, captain,” she told him. “Just remove this traitor from my sight.”

“As your Highness wishes,” the captain said with a deep bow. He gestured sharply, and the soldiers led Kador away.

Garion was staring at the mark on his palm. There was no sign of the fire that had burned there.

Durnik, released now from the grip of the soldiers, looked at Garion, his eyes wide. “I thought I knew you,” he whispered. “Who are you, Garion, and how did you do this?”

“Dear Durnik,” Aunt Pol said fondly, touching his arm. “Still willing to believe only what you can see. Garion’s the same boy he’s always been.”

“You mean it was you?” Durnik looked at Chamdar’s body and pulled his eyes quickly away.

“Of course,” she said. “You know Garion. He’s the most ordinary boy in the world.”

But Garion knew differently. The Will had been his, and the Word had come from him.

“Keep still!” her voice warned inside his head. “No one must know.”

“Why did you call me Belgarion?” he demanded silently.

“Because it’s your name,” her voice replied. “Now try to act natural and don’t bother me with questions. We’ll talk about it later.” And then her voice was gone.

The others stood around awkwardly until the legionnaires left with Kador. Then, when the soldiers were out of sight and the need for imperial self possession was gone, Ce’Nedra began to cry. Aunt Pol took the tiny girl in her arms and began to comfort her.

“I guess we’d better bury this,” Barak said, nudging what was left of Chamdar with his foot. “The Dryads might be offended if we went off and left it still smoking.”

“I’ll fetch my spade,” Durnik said.

Garion turned away and brushed past Mandorallen and Hettar. His hands were trembling violently, and he was so exhausted that his legs barely held him.

She had called him Belgarion, and the name had rung in his mind as if he had always known that it was his—as if for all his brief years he had been incomplete until in that instant the name itself had completed him. But Belgarion was a being who with Will and Word and the touch of his hand could turn flesh into living fire.

“You did it!” he accused the dry awareness in one corner of his mind. “No,” the voice replied. “I only showed you how. The Will and the Word and the touch were all yours. ”

Garion knew that it was true. With horror he remembered his enemy’s final supplication and the flaming, incandescent hand with which he had spurned that agonized appeal for mercy. The revenge he had wanted so desperately for the past several months was dreadfully complete, but the taste of it was bitter, bitter.

Then his knees buckled, and he sank to the earth and wept like a broken-hearted child.