"I rather thought you might feel that way about it."
"Are we under arrest?" Garion asked nervously.
"Not precisely, your Majesty," the captain answered. "Queen Porenn most definitely wishes to speak with you, however." He bowed then to Belgarath. "Ancient One," he greeted the old man respectfully. "I think that if we went around to the side entrance, we'd attract less attention." And he turned and gave his men the order to march.
"He knows who we are," Garion muttered to Silk.
"Naturally," Silk said.
"How are we going to get out of this? Won't Queen Porenn just ship us all back to Riva?"
"We'll talk to her," Belgarath said. "Porenn's got good sense. I'm sure we can explain this to her."
"Unless Polgara's been issuing ultimatums," Silk added. "She does that when she gets angry, I've noticed."
"We'll see."
Queen Porenn was even more radiantly lovely than ever. Her slimness made it obvious that the birth of her first child had already occurred. Motherhood had brought a glow to her face and a look of completion to her eyes. She greeted them fondly as they entered the palace and led them immediately to her private quarters. The little queen's rooms were somehow lacy and feminine with rubies on the furniture and soft, pink curtains at the windows. "Where have you been?" she asked them as soon as they were alone. "Polgara's frantic."
Belgarath shrugged. "She'll recover, What's happening in Riva?"
"They're directing the search for you, naturally," Porenn replied. "How did you manage to get this far? Every road's been blocked."
"We were ahead of everybody, Auntie dearest." Silk grinned impudently at her. "By the time they started blocking roads, we'd already gone through."
"I've asked you not to call me that, Kheldar," she admonished him.
"Forgive me, your Highness," he said with a bow, though still grinning mockingly.
"You're impossible," she told him.
"Of course I am," he answered. "It's part of my charm."
The queen sighed. "What am I going to do with all of you now?"
"You're going to let us continue our journey," Belgarath replied calmly. "We'll argue about it, of course, but in the end that's the way it will turn out."
She stared at him.
"You did ask, after all. I'm sure you feel better now that you know."
"You're as bad or worse than Kheldar," she accused.
"I've had more practice."
"It's quite out of the question," she told him firmly. "I have strict orders from Polgara to send you all back to Riva."
Belgarath shrugged.
"You'll go?" She seemed surprised.
"No," he replied, "we won't. You said that Polgara gave you strict orders to send us back. All right, then, I give you strict orders not to. Now where does that leave us?"
"That's cruel, Belgarath."
"Times are hard."
"Before we get down to serious squabbling, do you suppose we might have a look at the heir to the throne?" Silk asked.
His question was artful. No new mother could resist the opportunity to show off her infant, and Queen Porenn had already turned toward the cradle standing in the corner of the room before she realized that she was being cleverly manipulated.
"You're bad, Kheldar," she said reprovingly, but she nonetheless pulled back the satin coverlet to reveal the baby that had become the absolute center of her life.
The Crown Prince of Drasnia was very seriously attempting to put one of his toes in his mouth. With a happy little cry, Porenn caught him up in her arms and hugged him. Then she turned him and held him out for them to see. "Isn't he beautiful?" she demanded.
"Hail, cousin," Silk greeted the baby gravely. "Your timely arrival has insured that I will be spared the ultimate indignity."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Porenn asked him suspiciously. "Only that his little pink Highness has permanently removed any possibility of my ever ascending the throne," Silk replied. "I'd be a very bad king, Porenn. Drasnia would suffer almost as much as I would, if that disaster ever took place. Our Garion here is already a better king by accident than I could ever be."
"Oh dear." Porenn flushed slightly. "That completely slipped my mind." She curtsied somewhat awkwardly, her baby still in her arms. "Your Majesty," she greeted Garion formally.
"Your Highness," Garion answered with the bow Aunt Pol had made him practice for hours.
Porenn laughed her silvery little laugh. "That all seems so inappropriate." She put one hand to the back of Garion's neck, drew his head down and kissed him warmly. The baby in her other arm cooed. "Dear Garion," she said. "You've grown so tall."
There wasn't much he could say to that.
The queen studied his face for a moment. "Many things have happened to you," she observed shrewdly. "You're not the same boy I knew in Val Alorn."
"He's making progress," Belgarath agreed, settling himself into a chair. "How many spies are listening to us at the moment, Porenn?"
"Two that I know of," she replied, returning her baby to his cradle.
Silk laughed. "And how many spies are spying on the spies?"
"Several, I'd imagine," Porenn told him. "If I tried to unravel all the spying that goes on here, I'd never get anything done."
"I'll assume that they're all discreet," Belgarath said with a meaningful glance around at the walls and draperies.
"Of course they are," Porenn declared, sounding slightly offended. "We do have standards, you know. Amateurs are never allowed to spy inside the palace."
"All right, let's get down to business, then. Is it really going to be necessary for us to go through some long, involved argument about whether or not you're going to try to send us back to Riva?"
She sighed and then gave a helpless little laugh. "I suppose not," she surrendered. "You are going to have to give me an excuse to give to Polgara, though."
"Just tell her that we're acting on the instructions contained in the Mrin Codex."
"Are there instructions in the Mrin Codex?" She sounded surprised.
"There might be," he replied. "Most of it's such unmitigated gibberish that no one can be absolutely sure one way or the other."
"Are you asking me to try to deceive her?"
"No, I'm asking you to let her think that I deceived you - there's a difference."
"A very subtle one, Belgarath."
"It will be all right," he assured her. "She's always ready to believe the worst about me. Anyway, the three of us are on our way to Gar og Nadrak. Get word to Polgara that we're going to need a diversion of sorts. Tell her that I said to stop wasting time looking for us and to mass an army somewhere in the south - make a lot of noise. I want the Angaraks all to be so busy watching her that they don't have time to look for us."
"What on earth are you going to do in Gar og Nadrak?" Porenn asked curiously.
Belgarath looked suggestively at the walls behind which the official spies - as well as a few unofficial ones-lurked. "Polgara will know what we're doing. What's the current situation along the Nadrak border?"
"Tense," she replied. "It's not hostile yet, but it's a long way from cordial. The Nadraks don't really want to go to war. If it weren't for the Grolims, I honestly think we could persuade them to stay neutral. They'd much rather kill Murgos than Drasnians."
Belgarath nodded. "Pass the word on to your husband that I'd like for him to keep a fairly tight rein on Anheg," he continued. "Anheg's brilliant, but he's a trifle erratic at times. Rhodar's steadier. Tell him that what I want in the south is a diversion, not a general war. Alorns sometimes get overenthusiastic."
"I'll get word to him," Porenn promised. "When will you start?"
"Let's leave that a bit tentative." The old man glanced once again at the walls of the queen's room.
"You'll stay the night, at least," she insisted.
"How could we possibly refuse?" Silk asked mockingly.
Queen Porenn looked at him for a long moment. Then she sighed. "I gue
ss I should tell you, Kheldar," she said very quietly. "Your mother's here."
Silk's face blanched. "Here? In the palace?"
The queen nodded. "She's in the west wing. I've given her that apartment near the garden she loves so much."
Silk's hands had begun to tremble visibly, and his face was still ashen. "How long has she been here?" he asked in a strained voice.
"Several weeks. She came before the baby was born."
"How is she?"
"The same." The little blond queen's voice was hushed with sadness. "You'll have to see her, you know."
Silk drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His face, however, was still stricken. "There's no avoiding it, I guess," he said, almost to himself. "I might as-right-get it over with. You'll excuse me?"
"Of course."
He turned and left the room, his face somber.
"Doesn't he like his mother?" Garion asked.
"He loves her very much," the queen replied. "That's why it's so ternbly difficult for him. She's blind-fortunately."
"Fortunately?"
"There was a pestilence in western Drasnia about twenty years ago," Porenn explained. "It was a horrible disease, and it left dreadful scars on the faces of the survivors. Prince Kheldar's mother had been one of the most beautiful women in Drasnia. We've concealed the truth from her. She doesn't realize how disfigured her face is - at least we hope she doesn't. The meetings between Kheldar and his mother are heartbreaking. There's no hint in his voice of what he sees, but his eyes-" She broke off. "Sometimes I think that's why he stays away from Drasnia," she added. Then she straightened. "I'll ring for supper," she said, "and something to drink. Kheldar usually needs that after he's visited with his mother."
It was an hour or more before Silk returned, and he immediately started drinking. He drank grimly like a man bent on reducing himself to unconsciousness as quickly as possible.
It was an uncomfortable evening for Garion. Queen Porenn cared for her infant son even while keeping a watchful eye on Silk. Belgarath sat silently in a chair, and Silk kept drinking. Finally, pretending a weariness he did not feel, Garion went to bed.
He had not realized how much he had depended on Silk in the year and a half he had known him. The rat-faced little Drasnian's sardonic humor and towering self reliance had always been something to cling to. To be sure, Silk had his quirks and peculiarities. He was a highstrung, complex little man, but his unfailing sense of humor and his mental agility had seen them all through some very unpleasant situations. Now, however, all traces of humor and wit were gone, and the little man seemed on the verge of total collapse.
The dreadful confrontation toward which they rode seemed all the more perilous now for some reason. Although Silk might not have been able to help him when he finally faced Torak, Garion had counted on his friend to assist him through the terrible days leading up to the meeting. Now even that slight comfort seemed to have been taken away. Unable to sleep, he tossed and turned for hours; finally, well past midnight, he rose, pulled his cloak about him and padded on stockinged feet to see if his friend had made it to bed.
Silk had not. He still sat in the same chair. His tankard, unnoticed, had spilled, and he sat with his elbows in a puddle of ale and his face in his hands. Not far away, her face unreadable, sat the weary little blond queen of Drasnia. As Garion watched from the doorway, a muffled sound came from between Silk's hands. With a gentle, almost tender expression, Queen Porenn rose, came around the table and put her arms about his head, drawing him to her. With a despairing cry Silk clung to her, weeping openly like a hurt child.
Queen Porenn looked across the little man's shaking head at Garion. Her face quite clearly revealed that she was aware of Silk's feelings for her. Her look was one of helpless compassion for this man of whom she was fond but not in the way he wished - and combined with that was a deep sympathy for the suffering his visit with his mother had caused him.
Silently Garion and the Queen of Drasnia stood looking at each other. Speech was unnecessary; they both understood. When at last Porenn did speak, her tone was curiously matter-of fact. "I think you can put him to bed now," she said. "Once he's able to cry, the worst is usually over."
The next morning they left the palace and joined an east-bound caravan. The Drasnian moors beyond Boktor were desolate. The North Caravan Route wound through low, rolling hills covered with sparse vegetation and scanty grass. Although it was the middle of spring, there seemed to be a sere quality to the moors, as if the seasons only lightly touched them; the wind, sweeping down from the polar ice, still had the smell of winter in it.
Silk rode in silence, his eyes on the ground, though whether from grief or from the aftereffects of the ale he had drunk, Garion could not guess. Belgarath was also quiet, and the three of them rode with only the sound of the harness bells of a Drasnian merchant's mules for companionship.
About noon, Silk shook himself and looked around - his eyes finally alert, though still a bit bloodshot. "Did anybody think to bring something to drink?" he asked.
"Didn't you get enough last night?" Belgarath replied.
"That was for entertainment. What I need now is something therapeutic."
"Water?" Garion suggested.
"I'm thirsty, Garion, not dirty."
"Here." Belgarath handed the suffering man a wineskin. "But don't overdo it."
"Trust me," Silk said, taking a long drink. He shuddered and made a face. "Where did you buy this?" he inquired. "It tastes like somebody's been boiling old shoes in it."
"You don't have to drink it."
"I'm afraid I do." Silk took another drink, then restoppered the wineskin and handed it back. He looked sourly around at the moors. "Hasn't changed much," he observed. "Drasnia has very little to reoommend it, I'm afraid. It's either too wet or too dry." He shivered in the chilly wind. "Are either of you aware of the fact that there's nothing between us and the pole to break the wind but an occasional stray reindeer?"
Garion began to relax. Silk's sallies and comments grew broader and more outrageous as they rode through the afternoon. By the time the caravan stopped for the night, he seemed to be almost his old self again.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE CARAVAN WOUND its slow way through the dreary moors of eastern Drasnia with the sound of mule bells trailing mournfully behind it. Sparse patches of heath, which had but lately begun to bloom with tiny, pink flowers, dotted the low, rolling hills. The sky had turned cloudy, and the wind, seemingly perpetual, blew steadily out of the north.
Garion found his mood growing as sad and bleak as the moors around him. There was one inescapable fact which he no longer could hide from himself. Each mile, each step, brought him closer to Mallorea and closer to his meeting with Torak. Even the whispered song of the Orb, murmuring continually in his ears from the pommel of the great sword strapped to his back, could not reassure him. Torak was a God - invincible, immortal; and Garion, not even yet full-grown, was quite deliberately trekking to Mallorea to seek him out and to fight him to the death. Death was a word Garion tried very hard not to think about. It had been a possibility once or twice during their long pursuit of Zedar and the Orb; but now it seemed a certainty. He would meet Torak alone. Mandorallen or Barak or Hettar could not come to his aid with their superior skill at swordsmanship; Belgarath or Aunt Pol could not intercede for him with sorcery; Silk would not be able to devise some clever ruse to allow him to escape. Titanic and enraged, the Dark God would rush upon him, eager for blood. Garion began to fear sleep, for sleep brought nightmares which would not go away and which haunted his days, making each worse than the last.
He was afraid. The fear grew worse with each passing day until the sour taste of it was always in his mouth. More than anything, he wanted to run, but he knew that he could not. Indeed, he did not even know any place where he could run. There was no place in all the world for him to hide. The Gods themselves would seek him out if he tried and sternly drive him to that awful meeting which h
ad been fated to take place since the beginning of time. And so it was that, sick with fear, Garion rode to meet his fate.
Belgarath, who was not always asleep when he seemed to doze in his saddle, watched, shrewdly waiting until Garion's fear had reached its peak before he spoke. Then, one cloudy morning when the lead-gray sky was as dreary as the moors around them, he pulled his horse in beside Garion's. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked calmly.
"What's the point, Grandfather?"
"It might help."
"Nothing's going to help. He's going to kill me."
"If I thought it was that inevitable, I wouldn't have let you start on this journey."
"How can I possibly fight with a God?"
"Bravely," was the unhelpful reply. "You've been brave at some pretty inappropriate times in the past. I don't imagine you've changed all that much."
"I'm so afraid, Grandfather," Garion confessed, his voice anguished. "I think I know how Mandorallen felt now. The fear's so awful that I can't live with it."
"You're stronger than you think you are. You can live with it if you have to."
Garion brooded about that. It didn't seem to help much. "What's he like?" he asked, suddenly filled with a morbid curiosity.
"Who?"
"Torak."
"Arrogant. I never cared much for him."
"Is he like Ctuchik was - or Asharak?"
"No. They tried to be like him. They didn't succeed, of course, but they tried. If it's any help to you, Torak's probably as much afraid of you as you are of him. He knows who you are. When you meet him, he isn't going to see a Sendarian scullery boy named Garion; he's going to see Belgarion, the Rivan King, and he's going to see Riva's sword thirsting for his blood. He's also going to see the Orb of Aldur. And that will probably frighten him more than anything."
"When was the first time you met him?" Garion suddenly wanted the old man to talk - to tell stories as he had so long ago. Stories somehow always helped. He could lose himself in a story, and for a little while it might make things bearable.
Belgarath scratched at his short, white beard. "Let's see," he mused. "I think the first time was in the Vale - it was a very long time ago. The others had gathered there - Belzedar, Beldin, all the rest - and each of us was involved in his own studies. Our Master had withdrawn into his tower with the Orb, and sometimes months would pass during which we didn't see him.