The priest looked about helplessly, then turned and quickly left the hall with his cultists close behind him.
"Make him put it away, Durnik," Polgara told the smith. "And see if you can do something about the knots."
"I could seal them up with lead," Durnik mused. "Maybe that would keep him from getting it open."
"It might be worth a try." Then she looked around. "I thought you might all like to know that my father's awake," she told him. "The old fool appears to be stronger than we thought."
Garion, immediately alert, looked at her sharply, trying to detect some hint that she might not be telling them everything, but her calm face was totally unreadable.
Barak, laughing loudly with relief, slapped Hettar on the back. "I told you he'd be all right," he exclaimed delightedly. The others in the room were already crowding around Polgara, asking for details.
"He's awake," she told them. "That's about all I can say at the moment - except that he's his usual charming self. He's already complaining about lumps in the bed and demanding strong ale."
"I'll send some at once," Queen Silar said.
"No, Silar," Polgara replied firmly. "He gets broth, not ale."
"He won't like that much," Silk suggested.
"Isn't that a shame?" She smiled. She half turned, as if about to go back to the sickroom, then stopped and looked rather quizzically at Garion who sat, relieved, but still apprehensive about Belgarath's true condition, beside Adara. "I see that you've met your cousin," she observed.
"Who?"
"Don't sit there with your mouth open, Garion," she advised him. "It makes you look like an idiot. Adara's the youngest daughter of your mother's sister. Haven't I ever told you about her?"
It all came crashing in on him. "Aunt Pol!" he protested. "How could you forget something that important?"
But Adara, obviously as startled by the announcement as he had been, gave a low cry, put her arms about his neck and kissed him warmly. "Dear cousin!" she exclaimed.
Garion flushed, then went pale, then flushed again. He stared first at Aunt Pol, then at his cousin, unable to speak or even to think coherently.
Chapter Seven
IN THE DAYS that followed while the others rested and Aunt Pol nursed Belgarath back to health, Garion and his cousin spent every waking moment together. From the time he had been a very small child he had believed that Aunt Pol was his only family. Later, he had discovered that Mister Wolf-Belgarath - was also a relative, though infinitely far removed. But Adara was different. She was nearly his own age, for one thing, and she seemed immediately to fill that void that had always been there. She became at once all those sisters and cousins and younger aunts that others seemed to have but that he did not.
She showed him the Algar Stronghold from top to bottom. As they wandered together down long, empty corridors, they frequently held each others' hands. Most of the time, however, they talked. They sat together in out-of the-way places with their heads close together, talking, laughing, exchanging confidences and opening their hearts to each other. Garion discovered a hunger for talk in himself that he had not suspected. The circumstances of the past year had made him reticent, and now all that flood of words broke loose. Because he loved his tall, beautiful cousin, he told her things he would not have told any other living soul.
Adara responded to his affection with a love of her own that seemed as deep, and she listened to his outpourings with an attention that made him reveal himself even more.
"Can you really do that?" she asked when, one bright winter afternoon, they sat together in an embrasure high up in the fortress wall with a window behind them overlooking the vast sea of winter-brown grass stretching to the horizon. "Are you really a sorcerer?"
"I'm afraid so," he replied.
"Afraid?"
"There are some pretty awful things involved in it, Adara. At first I didn't want to believe it, but things kept happening because I wanted them to happen, It finally reached the point where I couldn't doubt it any more."
"Show me," she urged him.
He looked around a bit nervously. "I don't really think I should," he apologized. "It makes a certain kind of noise, you see, and Aunt Pol can hear it. For some reason I don't think she'd approve if I just did it to show off."
"You're not afraid of her, are you?"
"It's not exactly that. I just don't want her to be disappointed in me." He considered that. "Let me see if I can explain. We had an awful argument once - in Nyissa. I said some things I didn't really mean, and she told me exactly what she'd gone through for me." He looked somberly out of the window, remembering Aunt Pol's words on the steamy deck of Greldik's ship. "She's devoted a thousand years to me, Adara - to my family actually, but finally all because of me. She's given up every single thing that's ever been important to her for me. Can you imagine the kind of obligation that puts on me? I'll do anything she wants me to, and I'd cut off my arm before I'd ever hurt her again."
"You love her very much, don't you, Garion?"
"It goes beyond that. I don't think there's even been a word invented yet to describe what exists between us."
Wordlessly Adara took his hand, her eyes warm with a wondering affection.
Later that afternoon, Garion went alone to the room where Aunt Pol was caring for her recalcitrant patient. After the first few days of bed rest, Belgarath had steadily grown more testy about his enforced confinement. Traces of that irritability lingered on his face even as he dozed, propped up by many pillows in his canopied bed. Aunt Pol, wearing her familiar gray dress, sat nearby, her needle busy as she altered one of Garion's old tunics for Errand. The little boy, sitting not far away, watched her with that serious expression that always seemed to make him look older than he really was.
"How is he?" Garion asked softly, looking at his sleeping grandfather.
"Improving," Aunt Pol replied, setting aside the tunic. "His temper's getting worse, and that's always a good sign."
"Are there any hints that he might be getting back his-? Well, you know." Garion gestured vaguely.
"No," she replied. "Nothing yet. It's probably too early."
"Will you two stop that whispering?" Belgarath demanded without opening his eyes. "How can I possibly sleep with all that going on?"
"You were the one who said he didn't want to sleep," Polgara reminded him.
"That was before," he snapped, his eyes popping open. He looked at Garion. "Where have you been?" he demanded.
"Garion's been getting acquainted with his cousin Adara," Aunt Pol explained.
"He could stop by to visit me once in a while," the old man complained.
"There's not much entertainment in listening to you snore, father."
"I do not snore, Polgara."
"Whatever you say, father," she agreed placidly.
"Don't patronize me, Pol!"
"Of course not, father. Now, how would you like a nice hot cup of broth?"
"I would not like a nice hot cup of broth. I want meat - rare, red meat - and a cup of strong ale."
"But you won't get meat and ale, father. You'll get what I decide to give you-and right now it's broth and milk."
"Milk?"
"Would you prefer gruel?"
The old man glared indignantly at her, and Garion quietly left the room.
After that, Belgarath's recovery was steady. A few days later he was out of bed, though Polgara raised some apparently strenuous objections. Garion knew them both well enough to see directly to the core of his Aunt's behavior. Prolonged bed rest had never been her favorite form of therapy. She had always wanted her patients ambulatory as soon as possible. By seeming to want to coddle her irascible father, she had quite literally forced him out of bed. Even beyond that, the precisely calibrated restrictions she imposed on his movements were deliberately designed to anger him, to goad his mind to activity - never anything more than he could handle at any given time, but always just enough to force his mental recovery to keep pace with his physica
l recuperation. Her careful manipulation of the old man's convalescence stepped beyond the mere practice of medicine into the realm of art.
When Belgarath first appeared in King Cho-Hag's hall, he looked shockingly weak. He seemed actually to totter as he leaned heavily on Aunt Pol's arm, but a bit later when the conversation began to interest him, there were hints that this apparent fragility was not wholly genuine. The old man was not above a bit of self dramatization once in a while, and he soon demonstrated that no matter how skillfully Aunt Pol played, he could play too. It was marvellous to watch the two of them subtly maneuvering around each other in their elaborate little game.
The final question, however, still remained unanswered. Belgarath's physical and mental recovery now seemed certain, but his ability to bring his will to bear had not yet been tested. That test, Garion knew, would have to wait.
Quite early one morning, perhaps a week after they had arrived at the Stronghold, Adara tapped on the door of Garion's room; even as he came awake, he knew it was she. "Yes?" he said through the door, quickly pulling on his shirt and hose.
"Would you like to ride today, Garion?" she asked. "The sun's out, and it's a little warmer."
"Of course," he agreed immediately, sitting to pull on the Algar boots Hettar had given him. "Let me get dressed. I'll just be a minute."
"There's no great hurry," she told him. "I'll have a horse saddled for you and get some food from the kitchen. You should probably tell Lady Polgara where you're going, though. I'll meet you in the west stables."
"I won't be long," he promised.
Aunt Pol was seated in the great hall with Belgarath and King ChoHag, while Queen Silar sat nearby, her fingers flickering through warp and woof on a large loom upon which she was weaving. The click of her shuttle was a peculiarly drowsy sort of sound.
"Travel's going to be difficult in midwinter," King Cho-Hag was saying. "It will be savage in the mountains of Ulgo."
"I think there's a way we can avoid all that," Belgarath replied lazily. He was lounging deeply in a large chair. "We'll go back to Prolgu the way we came, but I need to talk to Relg. Do you suppose you could send for him?"
Cho-Hag nodded and gestured to a serving man. He spoke briefly to him as Belgarath negligently hung one leg over the arm of his chair and settled in even deeper. The old man was wearing a soft, gray woolen tunic; although it was early, he held a tankard of ale.
"Don't you think you're overdoing that a bit?" Aunt Pol asked him, looking pointedly at the tankard.
"I have to regain my strength, Pol," he explained innocently, "and strong ale restores the blood. You seem to forget that I'm still practically an invalid."
"I wonder how much of your invalidism's coming out of Cho-Hag's ale-barrel," she commented. "You looked terrible when you came down this morning."
"I'm feeling much better now, though." He smiled, taking another drink.
"I'm sure you are. Yes, Garion?"
"Adara wants me to go riding with her," Garion said. "I - that is, she - thought I should tell you where I was going."
Queen Silar smiled gently at him. "You've stolen away my favorite lady in waiting, Garion," she told him.
"I'm sorry," Garion quickly replied. "If you need her, we won't go."
"I was only teasing you." The queen laughed. "Go ahead and enjoy your ride."
Relg came into the hall just then, and not far behind him, Taiba. The Marag woman, once she had bathed and been given decent clothes to wear, had surprised them all. She was no longer the hopeless, dirty slave woman they had found in the caves beneath Rak Cthol. Her figure was full and her skin very pale. She moved with a kind of unconscious grace, and King Cho-Hag's clansmen looked after her as she passed, their lips pursed speculatively. She seemed to know she was being watched, and, far from being offended by the fact, it seemed rather to please her and to increase her self confidence. Her violet eyes glowed, and she smiled often now. She was, however, never very far from Relg. At first Garion had believed that she was deliberately placing herself where the Ulgo would have to look at her out of a perverse enjoyment of the discomfort it caused him, but now he was not so sure. She no longer even seemed to think about it, but followed Relg wherever he went, seldom speaking, but always there.
"You sent for me, Belgarath?" Relg asked. Some of the harshness had gone out of his voice, but his eyes still looked peculiarly haunted.
"Ah, Relg," Belgarath said expansively. "There's a good fellow. Come, sit down. Take a cup of ale."
"Water, thank you," Relg replied firmly.
"As you wish." Belgarath shrugged. "I was wondering, do you by any chance know a route through the caves of Ulgo that reaches from Prolgu to the southern edge of the land of the Sendars?"
"That's a very long way," Relg told him.
"Not nearly as long as it would be if we rode over the mountains," Belgarath pointed out. "There's no snow in the caves, and no monsters. Is there such a way?"
"There is," Relg admitted.
"And would you be willing to guide us?" the old man pressed.
"If I must," Relg agreed with some reluctance.
"I think you must, Relg," Belgarath told him.
Relg sighed. "I'd hoped that I could return home now that our journey's almost over," he said regretfully.
Belgarath laughed. "Actually, our journey's only just started, Relg. We have a long way to go yet."
Taiba smiled a slow, pleased little smile at that.
Garion felt a small hand slip into his, and he smiled down at Errand, who had just come into the hall. "Is it all right, Aunt Pol?" he asked. "If I go riding, I mean?"
"Of course, dear," she replied. "Just be careful. Don't try to show off for Adara. I don't want you falling off a horse and breaking anything."
Errand let go of Garion's hand and walked over to where Relg stood.
The knots on the pouch that Durnik had so carefully sealed with lead were undone again, and the little boy took the Orb out and offered it to Relg. "Errand?" he said.
"Why don't you take it, Relg?" Taiba asked the startled man. "No one in the world questions your purity."
Relg stepped back and shook his head. "The Orb is the holy object of another religion," he declared. "It is from Aldur, not UL, so it wouldn't be proper for me to touch it."
Taiba smiled knowingly, her violet eyes intent on the zealot's face. "Errand," Aunt Pol said, "come here."
Obediently he went to her. She took hold of the pouch at his belt and held it open. "Put it away," she told him.
Errand sighed and deposited the Orb in the pouch.
"How does he manage to keep getting this open?" she said half to herself as she examined the strings of the pouch.
Garion and Adara rode out from the Stronghold into the rolling hills to the west. The sky was a deep blue, and the sunlight was very bright. Although the morning was crisp, it was not nearly as cold as it had been for the past week or so. The grass beneath their horses' hooves was brown and lifeless, lying dormant under the winter sky. They rode together without speaking for an hour or so, and finally they stopped and dismounted on the sunny south side of a hill where there was shelter from the stiff breeze. They sat together looking out at the featureless miles of the Algarian plain.
"How much can actually be done with sorcery, Garion?" she asked after a long silence.
He shrugged. "It depends on who's doing it. Some people are very powerful; others can hardly do anything at all."
"Could you-" She hesitated. "Could you make this bush bloom?" She went on quickly, and he knew that was not the question she had originally intended to ask. "Right now, I mean, in the middle of wintertime," she added.
Garion looked at the dry, scrubby bit of gorse, putting the sequence of what he'd have to do together. "I suppose I could," he replied, "but if I did that in the wrong season, the bush wouldn't have any defense against the cold, and it would die."
"It's only a bush, Garion."
"Why kill it?"
She avoi
ded his eyes. "Could you make something happen for me, Garion?" she asked. "Some small thing. I need something to believe in very much just now."
"I can try, I guess." He did not understand her suddenly somber mood. "How about something like this?" He picked up a twig and turned it over in his hands, looking carefully at it. Then he wrapped several strands of dry grass around it and studied it again until he had what he wanted to do firmly in his mind. When he released his will on it, he did not do it all at once, so the change was gradual. Adara's eyes widened as the sorry-looking clump of twig and dry grass was transmuted before her.
It really wasn't much of a flower. It was a kind of pale lavender color, and it was distinctly lopsided. It was quite small, and its petals were not very firmly attached. Its fragrance, however, was sweet with all the promise of summer. Garion felt very strange as he wordlessly handed the flower to his cousin. The sound of it had not been that rushing noise he'd always associated with sorcery, but rather was very much like the bell-tone he'd heard in the glowing cave when he'd given life to the colt. And when he had begun to focus his will, he had not drawn anything from his surroundings. It had all come from within him, and there had been a deep and peculiar love in it.
"lt's lovely," Adara said, holding the little flower gently in her cupped hands and inhaling its fragrance. Her dark hair fell across her cheek, hiding her face from him. Then she lifted her chin, and Garion saw that her eyes were filled with tears. "It seems to help," she said, "for a little while, anyway"
"What's wrong, Adara?"
She did not answer, but looked out across the dun-brown plain.
"Who's Ce'Nedra?" she asked suddenly. "I've heard the others mention her"
"Ce'Nedra? She's an Imperial Princess - the daughter of Itan Horune of Tolnedra."
"What's she like?"
"Very small - she's part Dryad - and she has red hair and green eyes and a bad temper. She's a spoiled little brat, and she doesn't like me very much."
"But you could change that, couldn't you?" Adara laughed and wiped at the tears.
"I'm not sure I follow you."