Guardians of the West

  ‘Who could possibly have wanted to hurt Brand?’ he burst out. He had asked that same question over and over in the week or more since they had left the Vale. The big, sad-faced Warder had been so totally devoted to Garion and the Rivan Throne that he had possessed virtually no separate identity. So far as Garion knew, Brand had not had an enemy in the world.

  ‘That’s one of the first things we’ll want to find out when we get to Riva,’ she said. ‘Now please try to calm yourself. Pacing about doesn’t accomplish anything and it’s very distracting.’

  It was almost evening when Belgarath, Durnik, and Errand returned, bringing with them a tall, gray-haired Rivan whose clothing carried those distinctive smells of salt-water and tar that identified him as a sailor.

  ‘This is Captain Jandra,’ Belgarath introduced him. ‘He’s agreed to ferry us across to the Isle.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ Garion said simply.

  ‘My pleasure, your Majesty,’ Jandra replied with a stiff bow.

  ‘Have you just come in from Riva?’ Polgara asked him.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon, my Lady.’

  ‘Have you any idea at all about what happened there?’

  ‘We didn’t get too many details down at the harbor, my Lady. Sometimes the people up at the Citadel are sort of secretive—no offense, your Majesty. There are all kinds of rumors going about the city, though—most of them pretty farfetched. About all I can say for certain is that the Warder was attacked and killed by a group of Chereks.’

  ‘Chereks!’ Garion exclaimed.

  ‘Everyone agrees on that point, your Majesty. Some people say that all the assassins were killed. Others say that there were some survivors. I couldn’t really say for sure, but I know that they did bury six of them.’

  ‘Good,’ Belgarath grunted.

  ‘Not if there were only six to begin with, father,’ Polgara told him. ‘We need answers, not bodies.’

  ‘Uh—pardon me, your Majesty,’ Jandra said a little uncomfortably. ‘It might not be my place to say this, but some of the rumors in the city say that the Chereks were officials of some kind from Val Alorn and that they were sent by King Anheg.’

  ‘Anheg? That’s absurd.’

  ‘That’s what some people are saying, your Majesty. I don’t put much stock in it myself, but it might just be the kind of talk you wouldn’t want going much further. The Warder was well-liked in Riva, and a lot of people have taken to polishing their swords—if you take my meaning.’

  ‘I think I’d better get home as soon as possible,’ Garion said. ‘How long will it take us to get to Riva?’

  The captain thought it over. ‘My ship isn’t as fast as a Cherek warship,’ he apologized. ‘Let’s say three days—if the weather holds. We can leave on the morning tide, if you can be ready.’

  ‘We’ll do that, then,’ Garion said.

  It was late summer on the Sea of the Winds, and the weather held clear and sunny. Jandra’s ship plowed steadily through the sparkling, sun-touched waves, heeling to one side under a quartering wind. Garion spent most of the voyage pacing moodily up and down the deck. When, on the third day out from Camaar, the jagged shape of the Isle of the Winds appeared low on the horizon ahead, a kind of desperate impatience came over him. There were so many questions that had to be answered and so many things that had to be done that even the hour or so that it would take to reach the harbor seemed an intolerable delay.

  It was midafternoon when Jandra’s ship rounded the headland at the harbor mouth and made for the stone quays at the foot of the city. ‘I’m going on ahead,’ Garion told the others. ‘Follow me as soon as you can.’ And even as the sailors were making fast the hawsers, he leaped across to the salt-crusted stones of the quay and started up toward the Citadel, taking the steps two at a time.

  Ce’Nedra was waiting for him at the massive main doors of the Citadel, garbed in a black mourning dress. Her face was pale, and her eyes full of tears. ‘Oh, Garion,’ she cried as he reached her. She threw her arms about his neck and began to sob against his chest.

  ‘How long ago did it happen, Ce’Nedra?’ he asked, holding her in his arms. ‘Hettar didn’t have too many details.’

  ‘It was about three weeks ago,’ she sobbed. ‘Poor Brand. That poor, dear man.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find Kail?’

  ‘He’s been working at Brand’s desk,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think he’s slept for more than a few hours any night since it happened.’

  ‘Aunt Pol and the others should be along shortly. I’m going to talk with Kail. Would you bring them as soon as they get here?’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ she replied, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said. ‘Right now I’ve got to find out what happened.’

  ‘Garion,’ she said gravely, ‘they were Chereks.’

  ‘That’s what I’d heard,’ he said, ‘and that’s why I’ve got to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible.’

  The corridors of the Citadel were muted and oddly silent. As Garion strode toward that group of rooms in the west wing from which Brand had always conducted the day-to-day business of the kingdom, the servants and functionaries he encountered bowed soberly and stood aside for him.

  Kail was dressed in deepest black, and his face was gray with fatigue and deep sorrow. The orderly stacks of documents on the top of Brand’s heavy desk, however, gave evidence that despite his grief he had been working not only at his own duties but at his father’s as well. He looked up as Garion entered the room and started to rise.

  ‘Don’t,’ Garion said. ‘We have too much to do for formalities.’ He looked at his weary friend. ‘I’m sorry, Kail,’ he said sadly. ‘I’m more sorry than I can possibly tell you.’

  ‘Thank you, your Majesty.’

  Garion sank into the chair across the desk from him, his own weariness coming over him in a wave. ‘I haven’t been able to get any details,’ he said. ‘Could you tell me exactly what happened?’

  Kail nodded and leaned back in his chair. ‘It was about a month ago,’ he began, ‘not long after you left for Drasnia. A trade deputation from King Anheg arrived. All their credentials seemed to be in order, but they were a bit vague about exactly what the purpose of their visit was. We extended them the customary courtesies, and most of the time they stayed in the rooms we assigned them. Then, late one night, my father had been discussing some matters with Queen Ce’Nedra and was on his way back to his own quarters when he encountered them in the corridor leading to the royal apartments. He asked if he could help them, and they attacked him without any warning whatsoever.’ Kail stopped, and Garion could see his jaws tightly clenched. He drew in a deep breath and passed one weary hand across his eyes. ‘Your Majesty, my father wasn’t even armed. He did his best to defend himself, and he was able to call for help before they cut him down. My brothers and I ran to his aid—along with several of the Citadel guards—and we did our best to capture the assassins, but they absolutely refused to surrender.’ He frowned. ‘It was almost as if they were deliberately throwing their lives away. We had no choice but to kill them.’

  ‘All of them?’ Garion asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘All but one,’ Kail replied. ‘My brother, Brin, hit him across the back of the head with the butt of an axe. He’s been unconscious ever since.’

  ‘Aunt Pol’s with me,’ Garion said. ‘She’ll wake him—if anybody can.’ His face went bleak. ‘And when he does wake up, he and I are going to have a little talk.’

  ‘I want some answers, too,’ Kail agreed. He paused, his face troubled. ‘Belgarion, they carried a letter from King Anheg. That’s why we let them into the Citadel.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.’

  ‘I have the letter. It’s over his seal and his signature.’

  ‘I’ve called a meeting of the Alorn Council,’ Garion told him. ‘As soon as Anheg gets here, we’ll be ab
le to clear this up.’

  ‘If he comes,’ Kail added sombrely.

  The door opened quietly, and Ce’Nedra led the others into the room.

  ‘All right,’ Belgarath said crisply, ‘let’s see if we can sort this out. Did any of them survive?’

  ‘One, Ancient One,’ Kail replied, ‘but he’s unconscious.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Polgara asked.

  ‘We put him in a room in the north tower, my Lady. The physicians have been tending his injuries, but they haven’t been able to revive him yet.’

  ‘I’ll go at once,’ she said.

  Errand crossed the room to where Kail sat and wordlessly laid a sympathetic hand on the young Rivan’s shoulder. Kail’s jaws clenched again, and tears suddenly welled up in his eyes.

  ‘They had a letter from Anheg, Grandfather,’ Garion told the old man. ‘That’s how they got inside the Citadel.’

  ‘Do you have the letter anywhere?’ Belgarath asked Kail.

  ‘Yes, Ancient One. It’s right here.’ Kail began to leaf through a stack of documents.

  ‘That seems to be the best place to start,’ the old man said. ‘The entire Alorn alliance is hanging on this, so we’d better get it straightened out fast.’

  It was late evening by the time Polgara completed her examination of the lone surviving assassin. When she came into the royal apartment where the discussions had been continuing, her face was bleak. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do with him,’ she reported. ‘The entire back of his skull has been crushed. He’s only barely alive; if I try to wake him, he’ll die immediately.’

  ‘I need some answers, Aunt Pol,’ Garion said. ‘How long do you think it’s going to be until he wakes up?’

  She shook her head. ‘I doubt that he ever will—and even if he does, it’s unlikely that he’s going to be able to say anything coherent. About all that’s holding his brains together right now is his scalp.’

  He looked at her helplessly. ‘Couldn’t you—?’

  ‘No, Garion. There’s nothing left of his mind to work with.’

  Two days later, King Cho-Hag, Chief of the Clan-Chiefs of the Algar horsemen, arrived, accompanied by Queen Silar and Adara, Garion’s tall, dark-haired cousin. ‘A very sad occasion,’ Cho-Hag said to Garion in his quiet voice as they clasped hands on the quay.

  ‘It seems lately that about the only time we all get together is to attend funerals,’ Garion agreed. ‘Where’s Hettar?’

  ‘I think he’s at Val Alorn,’ Cho-Hag replied. ‘He’ll probably come here with Anheg.’

  ‘That’s something we’re going to have to talk about,’ Garion said.

  Cho-Hag lifted one eyebrow.

  ‘The people who killed Brand were Chereks,’ Garion explained quietly. ‘They had a letter from Anheg.’

  ‘Anheg could not have had anything to do with it,’ Cho-Hag declared. ‘He loved Brand like a brother. There had to be somebody else behind it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, but there’s a great deal of suspicion here in Riva right now. There are some people who are even talking war.’

  Cho-Hag’s face went grim.

  ‘That’s why we have to get to the truth in a hurry,’ Garion told him. ‘We’ve got to head that kind of thinking off before it gets completely out of hand.’

  The next day King Fulrach of Sendaria arrived in the harbor; with him on their stout, broad-beamed ship was the one-armed General Brendig, the ancient but stillvigorous Earl of Seline and, surprisingly, Queen Layla herself, the lady whose fear of sea travel had become almost legendary. That same afternoon, Queen Porenn, still in deepest mourning for her husband, disembarked from the black-painted Drasnian vessel that had carried her from Boktor, along with her son, the boy-king Kheva and the bone-thin Margrave Khendon, the man known as Javelin.

  ‘Oh, my dear Garion,’ Porenn said, embracing him at the foot of the gangway. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’

  ‘We’ve all lost one of our dearest friends,’ he replied. He turned to Kheva. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said with a formal bow.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Kheva replied, also bowing.

  ‘We heard that there’s some mystery surrounding the assassination,’ Porenn said. ‘Khendon here is very good at clearing up mysteries.’

  ‘Margrave,’ Garion greeted the Drasnian Chief of Intelligence.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Javelin responded. He turned and extended one hand to a young woman with honey-blond hair and soft brown eyes who was coming down the gangway. ‘You do remember my niece, don’t you?’

  ‘Margravine Liselle,’ Garion greeted her.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she replied with a formal curtsy. Although she was probably not even aware of it, the hint of a dimple in each of her cheeks gave her expression a slightly impish cast. ‘My uncle has pressed me into service as his secretary. He pretends failing eyesight, but I think perhaps it’s just an excuse to avoid giving me a genuine assignment. Older relatives tend to be overprotective sometimes, don’t you think?’

  Garion smiled briefly. ‘Has anyone heard from Silk?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s at Rheon,’ Javelin replied, ‘trying to gather information about the activities of the Bear-cult. We’ve sent messengers, but sometimes he can be hard to find. I expect he’ll be along soon, though.’

  ‘Has Anheg arrived yet?’ Queen Porenn asked.

  Garion shook his head. ‘Cho-hag and Fulrach are here, but there’s no word from Anheg yet.’

  ‘We’ve heard that some people suspect him,’ the little blond queen said. ‘It simply cannot be true, Garion.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to explain everything as soon as he arrives.’

  ‘Did any of the assassins survive?’ Javelin asked.

  ‘One,’ Garion told him, ‘but I’m afraid that he won’t be much help to us. One of Brand’s sons bashed in his head. It doesn’t appear that he’s ever going to wake up.’

  ‘Pity,’ Javelin murmured briefly, ‘but a man doesn’t always have to be able to talk in order to provide information.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Garion said fervently.

  The discussions at supper and later that evening were subdued. Though no one stated it openly, they were all reluctant to speak of the bleak possibility which faced them. To raise that question without Anheg’s being present might have solidified the doubts and suspicions and given the entire meeting a tone none of them were willing to assume.

  ‘When is Brand’s funeral to be held?’ Porenn asked quietly.

  ‘As soon as Anheg arrives, I guess,’ Garion replied.

  ‘Have you made any decisions concerning his office?’ Fulrach asked.

  ‘I don’t quite follow you.’

  ‘The position of Warder originated a long time ago in order to fill the vacuum that existed after the Nyissans murdered King Gorek and his family. Now that you occupy the throne, do you really need a Warder?’

  ‘To be honest with you, I hadn’t really thought about it. Brand’s always been here. He seemed as permanent as the stones of the Citadel itself.’

  ‘Who’s been doing his work since he was killed, your Majesty?’ the silvery-haired old Earl of Seline asked.

  ‘His second son, Kail.’

  ‘You have many other responsibilities, Belgarion,’ the Earl pointed out. ‘You really do need someone here to manage the day-to-day details—at least until the present crisis has passed. I don’t think, however, that any final decision about the post of Warder needs to be made just now. I’m sure that if you asked him, Kail would continue to perform his father’s duties without a formal appointment.’

  ‘He’s right, Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said. ‘Kail’s absolutely devoted to you. He’ll do anything you ask him to do.’

  ‘If this young man is doing an adequate job, it’s probably best to let him continue,’ Seline suggested. Then he smiled briefly. ‘There’s an old Sendarian adage that says, “If it isn’t broken, don’t try to fix it.”’

  The
following morning an ungainly-looking ship with elaborate structures fore and aft wallowed into the harbor under an obviously top-heavy spread of sail. Garion, who stood atop the battlements of the Citadel talking quietly with Javelin, frowned as he looked down at it. ‘What kind of ship is that?’ he asked. ‘I don’t recognize the construction.’

  ‘It’s Arendish, your Majesty. They feel the need to make everything look like a castle.’

  ‘I didn’t know that the Arends even had any ships.’

  ‘They don’t have very many,’ Javelin replied. ‘Their vessels have a tendency to capsize whenever they encounter a stiff breeze.’

  ‘I guess we’d better go down and see who it is.’

  ‘Right,’ Javelin agreed.

  The passengers aboard the clumsy Arendish vessel proved to be old friends. Mandorallen, the mighty Baron of Vo Mandor, stood at the rail, gleaming in full armor. At his side stood Lelldorin of Wildantor, and with them were their wives, Nerina and Ariana, both ornately gowned in dark, rich brocades.

  ‘We came instantly upon our receipt of the news of thy tragedy, Garion,’ Mandorallen shouted across the intervening water as the Arendish crew laboriously maneuvered their awkward ship toward the quay upon which Garion and Javelin waited. ‘Duty and affection, both for thee and thy foully murdered Warder, impell us to aid thee in thy rightful search for vengeance. Korodullin himself would have joined us but for an illness which hath laid him low.’

  ‘I suppose I should have expected this,’ Garion murmured.

  ‘Are they likely to complicate matters?’ Javelin asked quietly.

  Garion shuddered. ‘You have no idea.’

  It was not until two days later that the Seabird, with Barak at the tiller, rounded the headland and sailed into the harbor. The rails were lined with burly Cherek warriors in chain-mail shirts. Their faces were alert, and their eyes were wary as Barak steered his ship up to the quay.

  When Garion reached the foot of the long flight of stone steps leading down from the Citadel, a sizeable crowd had gathered. The mood of that crowd was ugly, and most of the men who stood there with grim faces had weapons at their sides.