Guardians of the West

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You wanted a formal proposal, so I just gave you one. Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Will you consent to marry me?’

  She gave him an arch look, her eyes twinkling. Then she reached out and fondly tousled his hair. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she replied.

  ‘What do you mean, you’ll think about it?’

  ‘Who knows?’ she said with a smirk. ‘I might get a better offer. Do get up, Garion. you’ll make the knees of your hose all baggy if you stay down on the floor like that.’

  He got to his feet. ‘Women!’ he said exasperatedly, throwing his arms in the air.

  She gave him that tiny, wide-eyed look that at one time, before he had come to recognize it as pure deception, had always made his knees go weak. ‘Don’t you love me any more?’ she asked in that trembling, dishonest, little-girl voice.

  ‘Didn’t we decide that we weren’t going to do that to each other any more?’

  ‘This is a special occasion, dear,’ she replied. And then she laughed, sprang up from her chair, and threw her arms about his neck. ‘Oh, Garion,’ she said, still laughing. ‘I do love you.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her upturned lips.

  The following morning Garion dressed rather informally and then tapped on the door to Ce’Nedra’s private sitting-room.

  ‘Yes?’ she answered.

  ‘It’s Garion,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’ His Sendarian good manners had been so deeply ingrained in him that even though he was the King here, he always asked permission before opening the door to someone else’s room.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  He turned the latch and entered her frilly private domain, a room all pink and pale-green flounces and with yards of rustling satin and brocade drapery. Ce’Nedra’s favorite lady-in-waiting, Arell, rose in some confusion to perform the customary curtsy. Arell was Brand’s niece, the daughter of his youngest sister, and she was one of several high born Rivan ladies who attended the queen. She was very nearly the archetypical Alorn woman, tall, blond and buxom, with golden braids coiled about her head, deep blue eyes and a complexion like new milk. She and Ce’Nedra were virtually inseparable, and the two spent much of their time with their heads together, whispering and giggling. For some reason, Arell always blushed rosily whenever Garion entered the room. He did not understand that at all, but privately suspected that Ce’Nedra had told her lady-in-waiting certain things that really should have remained private—things that brought a blush to the Rivan girl’s cheeks whenever she looked at him.

  ‘I’m going down into the city,’ Garion told his wife. ‘Did you want anything?’

  ‘I prefer to do my own shopping, Garion,’ Ce’Nedra replied, smoothing the front of her satin dressing gown. ‘You never get things right anyway.’

  He was about to reply to that, but decided against it. ‘Whatever you want. I’ll see you at luncheon then.’

  ‘As my Lord commands,’ Ce’Nedra said with a mocking little genuflection.

  ‘Stop that.’

  She made a face at him and then came over and kissed him.

  Garion turned to Arell. ‘My Lady,’ he said, bowing politely.

  Arell’s blue eyes were filled with suppressed mirth, and there was a slightly speculative look in them as well. She blushed and curtsied again. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said respectfully.

  As Garion left the royal apartment, he wondered idly what Ce’Nedra had told Arell to cause all those blushes and peculiar looks. He was grateful to the blond girl, however. Her presence provided Ce’Nedra with company, which left him free to attend to other matters. Since Aunt Pol had intervened and healed the estrangement that had caused them both so much anguish, Ce’Nedra had become very possessive about Garion’s spare time. On the whole he felt that being married was rather nice, but sometimes Ce’Nedra tended to overdo things a bit.

  In the corridor outside, Brand’s second son, Kail, was waiting, holding a parchment sheet in his hand. ‘I think this needs your immediate attention, Sire,’ he said formally.

  Although Kail was a warrior, tall and broad-shouldered like his father and his brothers, he was nonetheless a studious man, intelligent and discreet, and he knew enough about Riva and its people to be able to sort through the voluminous petitions, appeals, and proposals directed to the throne and to separate the important from the trivial. When Garion had first come to the throne, the need for someone to manage the administrative staff had been painfully clear, and Kail had been the obvious choice for that post. He was about twenty-four years old and wore a neatly trimmed brown beard. The hours he had spent in study had given him a slight squint and a permanent furrow between his eyebrows. Since he and Garion spent several hours a day together, they had soon become friends, and Garion greatly respected Kail’s judgment and advice. ‘Is it serious?’ he asked, taking the parchment and glancing at it.

  ‘It could be, Sire,’ Kail replied. ‘There’s a dispute over the ownership of a certain valley. The families involved are both quite powerful, and I think we’ll want to settle the matter before things go any further.’

  ‘Is there any clear-cut evidence of ownership on either side?’

  Kail shook his head. ‘The two families have used the land in common for centuries. There’s been some friction between them lately, however.’

  ‘I see,’ Garion said. He thought about it. ‘No matter what I decide, one side or the other is going to be unhappy with me, right?’

  ‘Very probably, your Majesty.’

  ‘All right, then. We’ll let them both be unhappy. Write up something that sounds sort of official declaring that this valley of theirs now belongs to me. We’ll let them stew about that for a week or so, and then I’ll divide the land right down the middle and give half to each of them. They’ll be so angry with me that they’ll forget that they don’t like each other. I don’t want this island turning into another Arendia.’

  Kail laughed. ‘Very practical, Belgarion,’ he said.

  Garion grinned at him. ‘I grew up in Sendaria, remember? Oh, keep a strip of the valley—about a hundred yards wide right through the center. Call it crown land or something and forbid them to trespass on it. That should keep them from butting heads along the fence line.’ He handed the parchment back to Kail and went on down the corridor, rather pleased with himself.

  His mission in the city that morning took him to the shop of a young glass blower of his acquaintance, a skilled artisan named Joran. Ostensibly the visit was for the purpose of inspecting a set of crystal goblets he had commissioned as a present for Ce’Nedra. Its real purpose, however, was somewhat more serious. Because his upbringing had been humble, Garion was more aware than most monarchs that the opinions and problems of the common people seldom came to the attention of the throne. He strongly felt that he needed a pair of ears in the city—not to spy out unfavorable opinion, but rather to give him a clear, unprejudiced awareness of the real problems of his people. Joran had been his choice for that task.

  After they had gone through the motions of looking at the goblets, the two of them went into a small, private room at the back of Joran’s shop.

  ‘I got your note as soon as I got back from Arendia,’ Garion said. ‘Is the matter really that serious?’

  ‘I believe so, your Majesty,’ Joran replied. ‘The tax was poorly thought out, I think, and it’s causing a great deal of unfavorable comment.’

  ‘All directed at me, I suppose?’

  ‘You are the king, after all.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Garion said drily. ‘What’s the main dissatisfaction with it?’

  ‘All taxes are odious,’ Joran observed, ‘but they’re bearable as long as everybody has to pay the same. It’s the exclusion that irritates people.’

  ‘Exclusion? What’s that?’

  ‘The nobility doesn’t have to pay comm
ercial taxes. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No,’ Garion said. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘The theory was that nobles have other obligations—raising and supporting troops and so on. That simply doesn’t hold true any more. The crown raises its own army now. If a nobleman goes into trade, though, he doesn’t have to pay any commercial taxes. The only real difference between him and any other tradesman is that he happens to have a title. His shop is the same as mine, and he spends his time the same way that I do—but I have to pay the tax, and he doesn’t.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem very fair,’ Garion agreed.

  ‘What makes it worse is that I have to charge higher prices in order to pay the tax, but the nobleman can cut his rates and steal my customers away from me.’

  ‘That’s going to have to be fixed,’ Garion said. ‘We’ll eliminate that exclusion.’

  ‘The nobles won’t like it,’ Joran warned.

  ‘They don’t have to like it,’ Garion said flatly.

  ‘You’re a very fair king, your Majesty.’

  ‘Fairness doesn’t really have all that much to do with it,’ Garion disagreed. ‘How many nobles are in business here in the city?’

  Joran shrugged. ‘A couple dozen, I suppose.’

  ‘And how many other businessmen are there?’

  ‘Hundreds.’

  ‘I’d rather have two dozen people hate me than several hundred.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ Joran admitted.

  ‘I sort of have to,’ Garion said wryly.

  The following week a series of squalls swept in off the Sea of the Winds, raking the rocky isle with chill gales and tattered sheets of slanting rain. The weather at Riva was never really what one would call pleasant for very long, and these summer storms were so common that the Rivans accepted them as part of the natural order of things. Ce’Nedra, however, had been raised far to the south in the endless sunshine at Tol Honeth, and the damp chill which invaded the Citadel each time the sky turned gray and soggy depressed her spirits and made her irritable and out of sorts. She customarily endured these spells of bad weather by ensconcing herself in a large green velvet armchair by the fire with a warm blanket, a cup of tea, and an oversized book—usually an Arendish romance which dwelt fulsomely on impossibly splendid knights and sighing ladies perpetually on the verge of disaster. Prolonged confinement, however, almost always drove her at last from her book in search of other diversions.

  One midmorning when the wind was moaning in the chimneys and the rain was slashing at the windows, she entered the study where Garion was carefully going over an exhaustive report on wool production on crown lands in the north. The little queen wore an ermine-trimmed gown of green velvet and a discontented expression. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Reading about wool,’ he replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think I’m supposed to know about it. Everybody stands round talking about wool with these sober expressions on their faces. It seems to be terribly important to them.’

  ‘Do you really care that much about it?’

  He shrugged. ‘It helps to pay the bills.’

  She drifted over to the window and stared out at the rain. ‘Will it never stop?’ she demanded at last.

  ‘Eventually, I suppose.’

  ‘I think I’ll send for Arell. Maybe we can go down into the city and look around the shops.’

  ‘It’s pretty wet out there, Ce’Nedra.’

  ‘I can wear a cloak, and a little rain won’t make me melt. Would you give me some money?’

  ‘I thought I gave you some just last week.’

  ‘I spent it. Now I need some more.’

  Garion put aside the report and went to a heavy cabinet standing against the wall. He took a key from a pocket in his doublet, unlocked the cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. Ce’Nedra came over and looked curiously into the drawer. It was about half-filled with coins, gold, silver, and copper, all jumbled together.

  ‘Where did you get all of that?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘They give it to me from time to time,’ he answered. ‘I throw it in there because I don’t want to have to carry it around. I thought you knew about it.’

  ‘How would I know about it? You never tell me anything. How much have you got in there?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Garion!’ Her voice was shocked. ‘Don’t you even count it?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘You’re obviously not a Tolnedran. This isn’t the whole royal treasury, is it?’

  ‘No. They keep that someplace else. This is just for personal expenses, I think.’

  ‘It has to be counted, Garion.’

  ‘I don’t really have the time, Ce’Nedra.’

  ‘Well, I do. Pull that drawer out and bring it over to the table.’

  He did that, grunting slightly at the weight, and then stood smiling fondly as she sat down and happily started counting money. He had not realized just how much sheer pleasure she could take in handling and stacking coins. She actually glowed as the merry tinkle of money filled her ears. A few of the coins had become tarnished. She looked at those disapprovingly and stopped the count to polish them carefully on the hem of her gown.

  ‘Were you going to go down into the city?’ he asked, resuming his seat at the other end of the table.

  ‘Not today, I guess.’ She kept on counting. A single lock of her hair strayed down across her face, and she absently blew at it from time to time as she concentrated on the task at hand. She dug another handful of jingling coins out of the drawer and began to stack them carefully on the table in front of her. She looked so serious about it that Garion started to laugh.

  She looked up sharply. ‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nothing, dear,’ he said and went back to work to the clinking accompaniment of Ce’Nedra’s counting.

  As the summer wore on, the news from the southern latitudes continued to be good. King Urgit of Cthol Murgos had retreated deeper into the mountains, and the advance of the Emperor Kal Zakath of Mallorea slowed even more. The Mallorean army had suffered dreadful losses in its first efforts to pursue the Murgos into that craggy wasteland and it now moved with extreme caution. Garion received the news of the near-stalemate in the south with great satisfaction.

  Toward the end of summer, word arrived from Algaria that Garion’s cousin Adara had just presented Hettar with their second son. Ce’Nedra went wild with delight and dipped deeply into the drawer in Garion’s study to buy suitable gifts for both mother and child.

  The news which arrived in early autumn, however, was not so joyous. In a sadly worded letter, General Varana advised them that Ce’Nedra’s father, Emperor Ran Borune XXIII, was sinking fast and that they should make haste to Tol Honeth. Fortunately, the autumn sky remained clear as the ship which carried the Rivan King and his desperately worried little wife ran south before a good following breeze. They reached Tol Horb at the broad mouth of the Nedrane within a week and then began rowing upriver to the Imperial Capital at Tol Honeth.

  They had gone no more than a few leagues when their ship was met by a flotilla of white and gold barges, which formed up around them to escort them to Tol Honeth. Aboard those barges was a chorus of young Tolnedran women who strewed flower petals on the broad surface of the Nedrane and caroled a formal greeting to the Imperial Princess.

  Garion stood beside Ce’Nedra on the deck of their ship, frowning slightly at this choral welcome. ‘Is that altogether appropriate?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the custom,’ she said. ‘Members of the Imperial Family are always escorted to the city.’

  Garion listened to the words of the song. ‘Haven’t they heard about your wedding yet?’ he asked. ‘They’re greeting the Imperial Princess, not the Rivan Queen.’

  ‘We’re a provincial people, Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said. ‘In Tolnedran’s eyes, an Imperial Princess is much more important than the queen of some remote is
land.’

  The singing continued as they moved on upriver. As the gleaming white city of Tol Honeth came into view, a huge brazen fanfare greeted them from the walls. A detachment of burnished legionnaires, their scarlet pennons snapping in the breeze and the plumes on their helmets tossing, awaited them on the marble quay to escort them through the broad avenues to the grounds of the Imperial palace.

  General Varana, a blocky-looking professional soldier with short-cropped, curly hair and a noticeable limp, met them at the palace gate. His expression was somber.

  ‘Are we in time, uncle?’ Ce’Nedra asked with an almost frightened note in her voice.

  The general nodded, then took the little queen in his arms. ‘You’re going to have to be brave, Ce’Nedra,’ he told her. ‘Your father is very, very ill.’

  ‘Is there any hope at all?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘We can always hope,’ Varana replied, but his tone said otherwise.

  ‘Can I see him now?’

  ‘Of course.’ The general looked gravely at Garion. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Garion replied, remembering that Ce’Nedra’s wily father had ‘adopted’ Varana several years back, and that the general was heir apparent to the Imperial Throne.

  Varana led them with his limping gait through the marble corridors of the vast palace to a quiet wing and a door flanked by a towering pair of legionnaires in burnished breastplates. As they approached, the heavy door opened quietly, and Lord Morin, the brown-mantled Imperial Chamberlain emerged. Morin had aged since Garion had last seen him, and his concern for his failing Emperor was written clearly on his face.

  ‘Dear Morin,’ Ce’Nedra said, impulsively embracing her father’s closest friend.

  ‘Little Ce’Nedra,’ he replied fondly. ‘I’m so glad you arrived in time. He’s been asking for you. I think perhaps the fact you were coming is all he’s been hanging on to.’

  ‘Is he awake?’

  Morin nodded. ‘He dozes a great deal, but he’s still alert most of the time.’