King of the Murgos

  ‘When will it end?’

  ‘When one of the Prophecies finally overcomes the other. When the Child of Light finally defeats the Child of Dark—or the other way around.’

  ‘I thought I already did that.’

  ‘I don’t think it was conclusive enough, Garion.’

  ‘I killed Torak, Grandfather. You can’t get much more conclusive than that, can you?’

  ‘You killed Torak, Garion. You didn’t kill the Dark Prophecy. I think it’s going to take something more significant than a sword fight in the City of Night to settle this.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  Belgarath spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t. This idea of yours could be very useful, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘If we’re going to go through a series of events that are similar to what happened last time, it could give us a notion of what to expect, couldn’t it? You might want to think about that—maybe spend a little time this morning remembering exactly what happened last time.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Belgarath drained his tankard and stood up. ‘As I said—I’m going back to bed.’

  That afternoon, a polite official in a brown mantle tapped on the door of the room where Garion sat reading and advised him that the Emperor Varana wanted to see him. Garion set aside his book and followed the official through the echoing marble halls to Varana’s study.

  ‘Ah, Belgarion,’ Varana said as he entered. ‘A bit of news has just reached me that you might find interesting. Please, have a seat.’

  ‘Information?’ Garion asked, sitting in the leather-upholstered chair beside the Emperor’s desk.

  ‘That man you mentioned the other day—Naradas—has been seen here in Tol Honeth.’

  ‘Naradas? How did he manage to get down here that fast? The last I heard, he was riding north from the Great Fair in Arendia.’

  ‘Has he been following you?’

  ‘He’s been asking a lot of questions and spreading money around.’

  ‘I can have him picked up, if you want. I have a few questions I’d like to ask him myself, and I could hold him for several months if need be.’

  Garion thought about it. Finally he shook his head rather regretfully. ‘He’s a Mallorean Grolim, and he could be out of any kind of prison cell you could put him in within a matter of minutes.’

  ‘The Imperial Dungeon is quite secure, Belgarion.’ Varana said a bit stiffly.

  ‘Not that secure, Varana.’ Then Garion smiled briefly, remembering the Emperor’s stubborn convictions about such things. ‘Let’s just say that Naradas has some out-of-the-ordinary resources available to him. It’s one of those things that make you uncomfortable to talk about.’

  ‘Oh,’ Varana said distastefully, ‘that.’

  Garion nodded. ‘It might be better in the long run just to have your people keep an eye on him. If he doesn’t know that we’re aware that he’s here, he might lead us to others—or at least to certain information. Harakan’s been seen here in Tolnedra, too, I understand, and I’d like to find out if there’s some kind of connection between the two of them.’

  Varana smiled. ‘Your life is a great deal more complicated than mine, Belgarion,’ he said. ‘I only have one reality to deal with.’

  Garion gave a wry shrug. ‘It helps to fill up my spare time,’ he replied.

  There was a light tap on the door, and Lord Morin slowly shuffled into the room. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your Majesties, but there’s some unsettling news from the city.’

  ‘Oh?’ Varana said. ‘What’s been happening, Morin?’

  ‘Someone’s been killing members of the Honeth family—very quietly, but very efficiently. Quite a few have died in the last two nights.’

  ‘Poison?’

  ‘No, your Majesty. This assassin is more direct. He smothered a few with their own pillows night before last, and there was one nasty fall. At first the deaths appeared to be of natural causes. Last night, though, he started using a knife.’ Morin shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Messy,’ he sniffed. ‘Very messy.’

  Varana frowned. ‘I thought that all the old feuds had settled down. Do you think it might be the Horbites? They hold grudges forever sometimes.’

  ‘No one seems to know, your Majesty. The Honeths are terrified. They’re either fleeing the city or turning their houses into forts.’

  Varana smiled. ‘I think I can live with the discomfort of the Honeth family. Did this fellow leave any kind of trademark? Can we identify him as a known assassin?’

  ‘We haven’t a clue, your Majesty. Should I put guards around the houses of the Honeths—the ones who are left?’

  ‘They have their own soldiers.’ Varana shrugged. ‘But put out some inquiries and let this fellow know that I’d like to have a little talk with him.’

  ‘Are you going to arrest him?’ Garion asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know that I want to go that far. I just want to find out who he is and suggest to him that he ought to follow the rules a little more closely, that’s all. I wonder who he could possibly be.’

  Garion, however, had a few private suspicions about the matter.

  The Erastide festivities were in full swing in Tol Honeth, and the revelers, many far gone in drink, lurched and staggered from party to party as the great families vied with one another in a vulgar display of ostentatious wealth. The huge mansions of the rich and powerful were festooned with gaily hued buntings and hung with colored lanterns. Fortunes were spent on lavish banquets, and the entertainments provided often exceeded the bounds of good taste. Although the celebrations at the palace were more restrained, Emperor Varana nonetheless felt obliged to extend his hospitality to many people he privately loathed.

  The event which had been long in the planning for that particular evening was a state banquet to be followed by a grand ball. ‘And you two will be my guests of honor,’ Varana firmly told Garion and Ce’Nedra. ‘If I have to endure this, then so do you.’

  ‘I’d really rather not, uncle,’ Ce’Nedra told him with a sad little smile. ‘I’m not much in the mood for festivities just now.’

  ‘You can’t just turn off your life, Ce’Nedra,’ he said gently. ‘A party—even one of the stuffy ones here in the palace—might help to divert your mind from your tragic circumstances.’ He gave her a shrewd look. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘if you don’t attend, the Honeths, Horbites, and Vordues will all be smirking up their sleeves about your absence.’

  Ce’Nedra’s head came up quickly, and her eyes took on a flinty look. ‘That’s true, isn’t it?’ she replied. ‘Of course, I really don’t have a thing to wear.’

  ‘There are whole closets filled with your gowns in the Imperial Apartments, Ce’Nedra,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten those. All right, uncle, I’ll be happy to attend.’

  And so it was that Ce’Nedra, dressed in a creamy white velvet gown and with a jeweled coronet nestling among her flaming curls, entered the ballroom that evening on the arm of her husband, the King of Riva. Garion, dressed in a borrowed blue doublet that was noticeably tight across the shoulders, approached the entire affair with a great lack of enthusiasm. As a visiting head of state, he was obliged to stand for an hour or so in the reception line in the grand ballroom, murmuring empty responses to the pleasantries offered by assorted Horbites, Vordues, Ranites, and Borunes—and their often giddy wives. The Honeths, however, were conspicuous by their absence.

  Toward the end of that interminable ceremony, Javelin’s honey-blonde niece, the Margravine Liselle, dressed in a spectacular gown of lavender brocade, came past on the arm of Prince Khaldon. ‘Courage, your Majesty,’ she murmured as she curtsied to Garion. ‘Not even this can last forever—though it might seem like it.’

  ‘Thanks, Liselle,’ he replied drily.

  After the reception line had wound to its tedious conclusion, Garion circulated politely among the other guests, enduring the endlessly repeated commen
t: ‘It never snows in Tol Honeth.’

  At the far end of the candlelit ballroom, a group of Arendish musicians sawed and plucked and tootled their way through a repertoire of holiday songs that were common to all the Kingdoms of the West. Their lutes, violas, harps, flutes, and oboes provided a largely unheard background to the chattering of the Emperor’s guests.

  ‘I had engaged Madame Aldima to entertain us this evening,’ Varana was saying to a small cluster of Horbites. ‘Her singing was to have been the high point of the festivities. Unfortunately, the change in the weather has made her fearful of coming out of her house. She’s most protective of her voice, I understand.’

  ‘And well she should be,’ a Ranite lady standing just behind Garion murmured to her companion. ‘It wasn’t much of a voice to begin with, and time hasn’t been kind to it—all those years Aldima spent singing in taverns, no doubt.’

  ‘It hardly seems like Erastide without singing,’ Varana continued. ‘Perhaps we might persuade one of these lovely ladies to grace us with a song or two.’

  A stout Borune lady of middle years quickly responded to the Emperor’s suggestion, joining with the orchestra in a rendition of an old favorite delivered in a warbling soprano voice that struggled painfully to reach the higher registers. When she had finished and stood red-faced and gasping, the Emperor’s guests responded to her screeching with polite applause which lasted for almost five seconds. Then they returned to their inane chatter.

  And then the musicians struck up an Arendish air so old that its origins were lost in the mists of antiquity. Like most Arendish songs, it was of a melancholy turn, beginning in a minor key with an intricate waterfall of notes from the lute. As the deep-toned viola entered with the main theme, a rich contralto voice joined in. Gradually, the conversations died out as that voice poignantly touched the guests into silence. Garion was startled. Standing not far from the orchestra, the Margravine Liselle had lifted her head in song. Her voice was marvelous. It had a dark, thrilling timbre and was as smooth as honey. The other guests drew back from her in profound respect for that glorious voice, leaving her standing quite alone in a golden circle of candlelight. And then, to Garion’s astonishment, Ce’Nedra stepped into that candlelight to join the lavender-gowned Drasnian girl. As the flute picked up the counter-harmony, the tiny Rivan Queen raised her sad little face and joined her voice with that of the Margravine. Effortlessly, her clear voice rose with that of the flute, so perfectly matching its tone and color that one could not separate exactly the voice of the instrument from hers. And yet, there was a sadness bordering on heartbreak in her singing, a sorrow that brought a lump to Garion’s throat and tears to his eyes. Despite the festivities around her, it was clearly evident that Ce’Nedra still nursed her abiding anguish deep in her heart, and no gaiety nor entertainment could lessen her suffering.

  As the song drew to its conclusion, the applause was thunderous. ‘More!’ they shouted. ‘More!’

  Encouraged by the ovation, the musicians returned to the beginning of that same ancient air. Once again the lute spilled out its heart in that rippling cascade, but this time as the viola led Liselle into the main theme, yet a third voice joined in—a voice Garion knew so well that he did not even have to look to see who was singing.

  Polgara, dressed in a deep blue velvet gown trimmed in silver, joined Liselle and Ce’Nedra in the candlelit circle. Her voice was as rich and smooth as the Margravine’s, and yet there was in it a sorrow that went even beyond Ce’Nedra’s—a sorrow for a place that had been lost and could never return again. Then, as the flute accompanied Ce’Nedra into the rising counterpoint, Polgara’s rose to join hers as well. The harmony thus created was not the traditional one which was so familiar in all the Kingdoms of the West. The Arendish musicians, their eyes filled with tears, took up those strange, antique chords to recreate a melody that had not been heard in thousands of years.

  As the last notes of that glorious song faded, there was an awed silence. And then, many of them weeping openly, the guests burst into applause as Polgara silently led the two young women out of that golden circle of light.

  Belgarath, looking somewhat unusually regal in a snowy Tolnedran mantle, but holding nonetheless a full silver goblet, stood in her path, his eyes a mystery.

  ‘Well, father?’ she asked.

  Wordlessly he kissed her forehead and handed her the goblet. ‘Lovely, Pol, but why revive something that’s been dead and gone for all these centuries?’

  Her chin lifted proudly. ‘The memory of Vo Wacune will never die so long as I live, father. I carry it forever in my heart, and every so often I like to remind people that there was once a shining city filled with grace and courage and beauty and that this mundane world in which we now live allowed it to slip away.’

  ‘It’s very painful for you, isn’t it, Polgara?’ he asked gravely.

  ‘Yes, father, it is—more painful than I can say—but I’ve endured pain before, so . . .’ She left it hanging with a slight shrug and moved with regal step from the hall.

  After the banquet, Garion and Ce’Nedra took a few turns about the ballroom floor, more for the sake of appearances than out of any real desire for it.

  ‘Why does Lady Polgara feel so strongly about the Wacite Arends?’ Ce’Nedra asked as they danced.

  ‘She lived in Vo Wacune for quite some time when she was young,’ Garion replied. ‘I think she loved the city—and the people—very much.’

  ‘I thought my heart would break when she sang that song.’

  ‘Mine nearly did,’ Garion said quietly. ‘She’s suffered so very much, but I think that the destruction of Vo Wacune hurt her more than anything else that’s ever happened. She’s never forgiven Grandfather for not coming to the aid of the city when the Asturians destroyed it.’

  Ce’Nedra sighed. ‘There’s so much sorrow in the world.’

  ‘There’s hope, too,’ he reminded her.

  ‘But only such a little.’ She sighed again. Then a sudden impish smile crossed her lips. ‘That song absolutely destroyed all the ladies who are here,’ she smirked. ‘Absolutely destroyed them.’

  ‘Try not to gloat in public, love,’ he gently chided her. ‘It’s really not very becoming.’

  ‘Didn’t Uncle Varana say that I was one of the guests of honor?’

  ‘Well—yes.’

  ‘It’s my party then,’ she said with a toss of her head,’ so I’ll gloat if I want to.’

  When they all returned to the set of rooms Varana had provided for their use, Silk was waiting for them, standing by the fire and warming his hands. The little man had a furtive, slightly worried look on his face, and he was covered from top to toe with reeking debris. ‘Where’s Varana?’ he asked tensely as they entered the candlelit sitting room.

  ‘He’s down in the ballroom entertaining his guests,’ Garion said.

  ‘What have you been doing, Prince Kheldar?’ Ce’Nedra asked, wrinkling her nose at the offensive odors emanating from his clothes.

  ‘Hiding,’ he replied, ‘under a garbage heap. I think we might want to leave Tol Honeth—fairly soon.’

  Belgarath’s eyes narrowed. ‘Exactly what have you been up to, Silk?’ he demanded, ‘and where have you been for the past couple of days?’

  ‘Here and there,’ Silk said evasively. ‘I really should go get cleaned up.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about what’s been happening to the Honeth family, do you?’ Garion asked.

  ‘What’s this?’ Belgarath said.

  ‘I was with Varana this afternoon when Lord Morin brought the report. The Honeths have been dying at a surprising rate. Eight or ten at last count.’

  ‘Twelve, actually,’ Silk corrected meticulously.

  Belgarath turned on the rat-faced man. ‘I think I’d like an explanation.’

  ‘People die,’ Silk shrugged. ‘It happens all the time.’

  ‘Did they have help?’

  ‘A little, maybe.’

  ‘A
nd were you the one who provided this assistance?’

  ‘Would I do that?’

  Belgarath’s face grew bleak. ‘I want the truth, Prince Kheldar.’

  Silk spread his hands extravagantly. ‘What is truth, old friend? Can any man ever really know what the truth is?’

  ‘This isn’t a philosophical discussion, Silk. Have you been out butchering Honeths?’

  ‘I don’t know that I’d say “butchering” exactly. That word smacks of a certain crudity. I pride myself on my refinement.’

  ‘Have you been killing people?’

  ‘Well,’ Silk’s face took on a slightly offended expression, ‘if you’re going to put it that way—’

  ‘Twelve people?’ Durnik’s tone was incredulous.

  ‘And another that isn’t very likely to survive,’ Silk noted. ‘I was interrupted before I had time to make sure of him, but I probably did enough to get the job done.’

  ‘I’m still waiting, Silk,’ Belgarath said darkly.

  Silk sniffed at one rancid sleeve and made a face. ‘Bethra and I were very good friends.’ He shrugged as if that explained everything.

  ‘But—’ Durnik objected. ‘Didn’t she try to have you killed once?’

  ‘Oh, that. That wasn’t anything important. It was business—nothing personal.’

  ‘Isn’t trying to kill somebody about as personal as you can get?’

  ‘Of course not. I was interfering with something she was working on. You see, she had this arrangement with the Thullish ambassador, and—’

  ‘Quit trying to change the subject, Silk,’ Belgarath said.

  Silk’s eyes grew hard. ‘Bethra was a special woman,’ he replied. ‘Beautiful, gifted, and totally honest. I admired her very much. You could almost say that I loved her—in a rather special kind of way. The idea that someone saw fit to have her cut down in the street greatly offended me. I did what I thought was appropriate.’

  ‘Despite the importance of what we’re doing?’ Belgarath’s face was like a thundercloud. ‘You just dropped everything and ran out to do a little private killing?’

  ‘There are some things you just don’t let slide, Belgarath. There’s also a principle involved. We do not allow the killing of a member of Drasnian intelligence to go unpunished. It’s bad for business if people get the idea that they can get away with that sort of thing. Anyway, the first night I went to some pains to make things look sort of natural.’