Castle of Wizardry

  The guards at the side door to the Hall bowed respectfully as he passed them and drew up into formation to accompany him. "I'm not really going anyplace," Garion told the sergeant in charge. "Just back to my rooms, and I know the way. Why don't you and your men go have some lunch?"

  "Your Majesty is very kind," the sergeant replied. "Will you need us later?"

  "I'm not sure. I'll send somebody to let you know."

  The sergeant bowed again, and Garion went on along the dimly lighted corridor. He had found this passageway about two days after his coronation. It was relatively unused and it was the most direct route from the royal apartment to the throne room. Garion liked it because he could follow it to and from the great Hall with a minimum of pomp and ceremony. There were only a few doors, and the candles on the walls were spaced far enough apart to keep the light subdued. The dimness seemed comforting for some reason, almost as if it restored in some measure his anonymity.

  He walked along, lost in thought. There were so many things to worry about. The impending war between the West and the Angarak kingdoms was uppermost in his mind. He, as Overlord of the West, would be expected to lead the West; and Kal Torak, awakened from his slumber, would come against him with the multitudes of Angarak. How could he possibly face so ternble an adversary? The very name of Torak chilled him, and what did he know about armies and battles? Inevitably, he would blunder, and Torak would smash all the forces of the West with one mailed fist.

  Not even sorcery could help him. His own power was still too untried to risk a confrontation with Torak. Aunt Pol would do her best to aid him, of course, but without Belgarath they had little hope of success; and Belgarath had still not given any indication that his collapse had not permanently impaired his abilities.

  Garion did not want to think about that any more, but his other problems were nearly as bad. Very soon he was going to have to come to grips with Ce'Nedra's adamant refusal to make peace. If she would only be reasonable, Garion was sure that the marginal difference in their rank would not make all that much difference. He liked Ce'Nedra. He was even prepared to admit that his feelings for her went quite a bit deeper than that. She could - usually when she wanted something - be absolutely adorable. If they could just get past this one minor problem, things might turn out rather well. That possibility brightened his thoughts considerably. Musing about it, he continued on down the corridor.

  He had gone only a few more yards when he heard that furtive step behind him again. He sighed, wishing that his everpresent attendant would find some other amusement. Then he shrugged and, deep in thought about the Nyissan question, he continued on along the corridor.

  The warning was quite sharp and came at the last instant. "Look out!" the voice in his mind barked at him. Not knowing exactly why, not even actually thinking about it, Garion reacted instantly, diving headlong to the floor. His crown went rolling as, with a great shower of sparks, a thrown dagger clashed into the stone wall and went bouncing and skittering along the flagstones. Garion swore, rolled quickly and came to his feet with his own dagger in his hand. Outraged and infuriated by this sudden attack, he ran back along the corridor, his ermine-trimmed robe flapping and tangling cumbersomely around his legs.

  He caught only one or two momentary glimpses of his gray-cloaked attacker as he ran after the knife thrower. The assassin dodged into a recessed doorway some yards down the corridor, and Garion heard a heavy door slam behind the fleeing man. When he reached the door and wrenched it open, his dagger still in his fist, he found only another long, dim passageway. There was no one in sight.

  His hands were shaking, but it was more from anger than from fright. He briefly considered calling the guards, but almost immediately dismissed that idea. To continue following the assailant was, the more he thought about it, even more unwise. He had no weapon but his dagger, and the possibility of meeting someone armed with a sword occurred to him. There might even be more than one involved in this business, and these dimly lighted and deserted corridors were most certainly not a good place for confrontations.

  As he started to close the door, something caught his eye. A small scrap of gray wool lay on the floor just at the edge of the door frame. Garion bent, picked it up and carried it over to one of the candles hanging along the wall. The bit of wool was no more than two fingers wide and seemed to have been torn from the corner of a gray Rivan cloak. In his haste to escape, the assassin had, Garion surmised, inadvertently slammed the door on his own cape, and then had ripped off this fragment in his flight. Garion's eyes narrowed and he turned and hurried back up the corridor, stooping once to retrieve his crown and again to pick up his assailant's dagger. He looked around once. The hallway was empty and somehow threatening. If the unknown knife thrower were to return with three or four companions, things could turn unpleasant. All things considered, it might be best to get back to his own apartments as quickly as possible - and to lock his door. Since there was no one around to witness any lack of dignity, Garion lifted the skirts of his royal robe and bolted like a rabbit for safety.

  He reached his own door, jerked it open and jumped inside, closing and locking it behind him. He stood with his ear against the door, listening for any sounds of pursuit.

  "Is something wrong, your Majesty?"

  Garion almost jumped out of his skin. He whirled to confront his valet, whose eyes widened as he saw the daggers in the king's hands. "Uh-nothing" he replied quickly, trying to cover his confusion. "Help me out of this thing." He struggled with the fastenings of his robe. His hands seemed to be full of daggers and crowns. With a negligent flip he tossed his crown into a nearby chair, sheathed his own dagger and then carefully laid the other knife and the scrap of wool cloth on the polished table.

  The valet helped him to remove the robe and then carefully folded it over his arm. "Would your Majesty like to have me get rid of these for you?" he asked, looking a bit distastefully at the dagger and the bit of wool on the table.

  "No," Garion told him firmly. Then a thought occurred to him. "Do you know where my sword is?" he asked.

  "Your Majesty's sword hangs in the throne room," the valet replied.

  "Not that one," Garion said. "The other one. The one I was wearing when I first came here."

  "I suppose I could find it," the valet answered a bit dubiously.

  "Do that," Garion said. "I think I'd like to have it where I can get my hands on it. And please see if you can find Lelldorin of Wildantor for me. I need to talk to him."

  "At once, your Majesty." The valet bowed and quietly left the room. Garion took up the dagger and the scrap of cloth and examined both rather closely. The dagger was just a commonplace knife, heavy, sturdily made and with a wirebound hilt. It bore no ornaments or identifying marks of any kind. Its tip was slightly bent, the result of its contact with the stone wall. Whoever had thrown it had thrown very hard. Garion developed a definitely uncomfortable sensation between his shoulder blades. The dagger would probably not be very useful. There were undoubtedly a hundred like it in the Citadel. The wool scrap, on the other hand, might prove to be very valuable. Somewhere in this fortress, there was a man with the corner of his cloak torn off. The torn cloak and this little piece of cloth would very likely match rather closely.

  About a half an hour later Lelldorin arrived. "You sent for me, Garion?" he asked.

  "Sit down, Lelldorin," Garion told his friend, then pointedly waited until the valet left the room. "I think I've got a little bit of a problem," he said then, sprawling deeper in the chair by the table. "I wondered if I might ask your help."

  "You know you don't have to ask, Garion," the earnest young Asturian told him.

  "This has to be just between the two of us," Garion cautioned. "I don't want anyone else to know."

  "My word of honor on it," Lelldorin replied instantly.

  Garion slid the dagger across the table to his friend. "A little while ago when I was on my way back here, somebody threw this at me."

  Lelldorin gasped a
nd his eyes went wide. "Treason?" he gasped.

  "Either that or something personal," Garion replied. "I don't know what it's all about."

  "You must alert your guards," Lelldorin declared, jumping to his feet.

  "No," Garion answered firmly. "If I do that, they'll lock me up entirely. I don't have very much freedom left at all, and I don't want to lose it."

  "Did you see him at all?" Lelldorin asked, sitting down again and examining the dagger.

  "Just his back. He was wearing one of those gray cloaks."

  "All Rivan wear gray cloaks, Garion."

  "We do have something to work with, though." Garion took the scrap of wool out from under his tunic. "After he threw the knife, he ran through a door and slammed it shut behind him. He caught his cloak in the door and this got ripped off."

  Lelldorin examined the bit of cloth. "It looks like a corner," he noted.

  "That's what I think, too," Garion agreed. "If we both keep our eyes open, we might just happen to see somebody with the corner of his cloak missing. Then, if we can get our hands on his cloak, we might be able to see if this piece matches."

  Lelldorin nodded his agreement, his face hardening. "When we find him, though, I want to deal with him. A king isn't supposed to become personally involved in that sort of thing."

  "I might decide to suspend the rules," Garion said grimly. "I don't like having knives thrown at me. But let's find out who it is first."

  "I'll start at once," Lelldorin said, rising quickly. "I'll examine every corner of every cloak in Riva if I have to. We'll find this traitor, Garion. I promise you."

  Garion felt better after that, but it was still a wary young king who, in the company of a detachment of guards, went late that afternoon to the private apartments of the Rivan Warder. He looked about constantly as he walked, and his hand was never far from the hilt of the sword at his waist.

  He found Brand seated before a large harp. The Warder's big hands seemed to caress the strings of the instrument, bringing forth a plaintively rippling melody. The big, grim man's face was soft and reflective as he played, and Garion found that the music was even more beautiful because it was so unexpected.

  "You play very well, my Lord," he said respectfully as the last notes of the song lingered in the strings.

  "I play often, your Majesty," Brand replied. "Sometimes as I play I can even forget that my wife is no longer with me." He rose from the chair in front of the harp and squared his shoulders, all softness going out of his face. "How may I serve you, King Belgarion?"

  Garion cleared his throat a trifle nervously. "I'm probably not going to say this very well," he admitted, "but please take it the way I mean it and not the way it might come out."

  "Certainly, your Majesty."

  "I didn't ask for all this, you know," Garion began with a vague gesture that took in the entire Citadel. "The crown, I mean, and being king - all of it. I was really pretty happy the way I was."

  "Yes, your Majesty?"

  "What I'm trying to get at is - well - you were the ruler here in Riva until I came along."

  Brand nodded soberly.

  "I didn't really want to be king," Garion rushed on, "and I certainly didn't want to push you out of your position."

  Brand looked at him, and then he slowly smiled. "I'd wondered why you seemed so uneasy whenever I came into the room, your Majesty. Is that what's been making you uncomfortable?"

  Mutely, Garion nodded.

  "You don't really know us yet, Belgarion," Brand told him. "You've only been here for a little more than a month. We're a peculiar sort of people. For over three thousand years we've been protecting the Orb ever since Iron-grip came to this island. That's why we exist, and I think that one of the things we've lost along the way is that sense of self other men seem to feel is so important. Do you know why I'm called Brand?"

  "I never really thought about it," Garion admitted.

  "I do have another name, of course," Brand said, "but I'm not supposed ever to mention it. Each Warder has been called Brand so that there could never be any sense of personal glory in the office. We serve the Orb; that's our only purpose. To be quite honest with you, I'm really rather glad you came when you did. It was getting close to the time when I was supposed to choose my successor - with the help of the Orb, of course. But I didn't have the faintest idea whom to choose. Your arrival has relieved me of that task."

  "We can be friends, then?"

  "I think we already are, Belgarion," Brand replied gravely. "We both serve the same master, and that always brings men close together."

  Garion hesitated. "Am I doing all right?" he blurted.

  Brand considered that. "Some of the things you've done weren't exactly the way I might have done them, but that's to be expected. Rhodar and Anheg don't always do things the same way either. Each of us has his own particular manner."

  "They make fun of me, don't they - Anheg, Rhodar, and the others. I hear all the clever remarks every time I make a decision."

  "I wouldn't worry too much about that, Belgarion. They're Alorns, and Alorns don't take kings very seriously. They make fun of each other too, you know. You could almost say that as long as they're joking, everything is all right. If they suddenly become very serious and formal, then you'll know that you're in trouble."

  "I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way," Garion admitted.

  "You'll get used to it in time," Brand assured him.

  Garion felt much better after his conversation with Brand. In the company of his guards he started back toward the royal apartments; but part way there, he changed his mind and went looking for Aunt Pol instead. When he entered her rooms, his cousin Adara was sitting quietly with her, watching as Aunt Pol carefully mended one of Garion's old tunics. The girl rose and curtsied formally.

  "Please Adara," he said in a pained voice, "don't do that when we're alone. I see enough of it out there." He gestured in the direction of the more public parts of the building.

  "Whatever your Majesty wishes," she replied.

  "And don't call me that. I'm still just Garion."

  She looked gravely at him with her calm, beautiful eyes. "No, cousin," she disagreed, "you'll never be `just Garion' any more."

  He sighed as the truth of that struck his heart.

  "If you'll excuse me," she said then, "I must go attend Queen Silar. She's a bit unwell, and she says it comforts her to have me near."

  "It comforts all of us when you're near," Garion told her without even thinking about it.

  She smiled at him fondly.

  "There might be some hope for him after all," Aunt Pol observed, her needle busy.

  Adara looked at Garion. "He has never really been that bad, Lady Polgara," she said. She inclined her head toward them both and quietly left the room.

  Garion wandered around for a few moments and then flung himself into a chair. A great deal had happened that day, and he felt suddenly at odds with the whole world.

  Aunt Pol continued to sew.

  "Why are you doing that?" Garion demanded finally. "I'll never wear that old thing again."

  "It needs fixing, dear," she told him placidly.

  "There are a hundred people around who could do it for you."

  "I prefer to do it myself."

  "Put it down and talk to me."

  She set the tunic aside and looked at him inquiringly. "And what did your Majesty wish to discuss?" she inquired.

  "Aunt Pol!" Garion's voice was stricken. "Not you too."

  "Don't give orders then, dear," she recommended, picking up the tunic again.

  Garion watched her at her sewing for a few moments, not really knowing what to say. A strange thought occurred to him. "Why are you doing that, Aunt Pol?" he asked, really curious this time. "Probably nobody'll ever use it again, so you're just wasting time on it."

  "It's my time, dear," she reminded him. She looked up from her sewing, her eyes unreadable. Then, without explanation she held up the tunic with one hand and ran t
he forefinger of her other hand carefully up the rip. Garion felt a very light surge, and the sound was only a whisper. The rip mended itself before his eyes, rewoven as if it had never existed. "Now you can see how completely useless mending it really is," she told him.

  "Why do you do it then?"

  "Because I like to sew, dear," she replied. With a sharp little jerk she ripped the tunic again. Then she picked up her needle and patiently began repairing the rip. "Sewing keeps the hands and eyes busy, but leaves the mind free for other things. It's very relaxing."

  "Sometimes you're awfully complicated, Aunt Pol."

  "Yes, dear. I know."

  Garion paced about for a bit, then suddenly knelt beside her chair and, pushing her sewing aside, he put his head into her lap. "Oh, Aunt Pol," he said, very close to tears.

  "What's the matter, dear?" she asked, carefully smoothing his hair.

  "I'm so lonely."

  "Is that all?"

  He lifted his head and stared at her incredulously. He had not expected that.

  "Everyone is lonely, dear," she explained, drawing him close to her. "We touch other people only briefly, then we're alone again. You'll get used to it in time."

  "Nobody will talk to me now - not the way they did before. They're always bowing and saying 'Your Majesty' to me."

  "You are the king, after all," she replied.

  "But I don't want to be."

  "That's too bad. It's the destiny of your family, so there's not a thing you can do about it. Did anyone ever tell you about Prince Gared?"

  "I don't think so. Who was he?"

  "He was the only survivor when the Nyissan assassins killed King Gorek and his family. He escaped by throwing himself into the sea."

  "How old was he?"

  "Six. He was a very brave child. Everyone thought that he had drowned and that his body had been washed out to sea. Your grandfather and I encouraged that belief. For thirteen hundred years we've hidden Prince Gared's descendants. For generations they've lived out their lives in quiet obscurity for the single purpose of bringing you to the throne - and now you say that you don't want to be king?"