Guardians of the West

by David Eddings

  ‘Ce’Nedra!’

  She laughed another silvery peal of laughter and began kicking her bare feet, sending up showers of sparkling water drops that gleamed like jewels in the midmorning sunlight. Then she lay back and her hair spread like a deep copper fan upon the surface of the pool. The garland of flowers she had woven for herself earlier had come apart as a result of her swimming, and the individual blossoms floated on the water, bobbing in the ripples.

  Garion sat on a mossy hummock with his back resting comfortably against a tree trunk. The sun was warm, and the smell of trees and grass and wildflowers filled his nostrils. A breeze carrying the salt tang of the sea sighed among the green limbs of the tall fir trees surrounding the little glade, and golden sunlight fell in patches on the floor of the forest.

  An errant butterfly, its patterned wings a blaze of iridescent blue and gold, flitted out from among the tall tree trunks into the sunlight. Drawn by color or scent or some other, more mysterious urge, it wavered through the lucid air to the pool and the flowers bobbing there. Curiously it moved from flower to floating flower, touching each of them lightly with its wings. With a breathless expression Ce’Nedra slowly sank her head into the water until only her upturned face was above the surface. The butterfly continued its curious investigation, coming closer and closer to the waiting queen. And then it hovered over her face, its soft wings brushing her lips ecstatically.

  ‘Oh, fine.’ Garion laughed. ‘Now my wife is consorting with butterflies.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever it takes in order to get a kiss,’ she replied, giving him an arch look.

  ‘If it’s kisses you want, I’ll take care of that for you,’ he said.

  ‘That’s an interesting thought. I think I’d like one right now. My other lover seems to have lost interest.’ She pointed at the butterfly, which had settled with quivering wings on a bush near the foot of the pool. ‘Come and kiss me, Garion.’

  ‘You’re right in the middle of the deepest part of the pool,’ he pointed out.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider coming out.’

  ‘You offered kisses, Garion. You didn’t make any conditions.’

  Garion sighed, stood up, and began to remove his clothing. ‘We’re both going to regret this,’ he predicted. ‘A cold in the summertime lasts for months.’

  ‘You’re not going to catch cold, Garion. Come along now.’

  He groaned and then waded manfully into the icy water. ‘You’re a cruel woman, Ce’Nedra,’ he accused, wincing at the shocking chill.

  ‘Don’t be such a baby. Come over here.’

  Gritting his teeth, he plowed through the water toward her, stubbing his toe on a large rock in the process. When he reached her, she slid her cold, wet little arms around his neck and glued her lips to his. Her kiss was lingering and it pulled him slightly off balance. He felt her lips tighten slightly as she grinned impishly, even in the midst of the kiss, and then without any warning, she lifted her legs, and her weight pulled him under.

  He came up spluttering and swearing.

  ‘Wasn’t that fun?’ she giggled.

  ‘Not really,’ he grumbled. ‘Drowning isn’t one of my favorite sports.’

  She ignored that. ‘Now that you’re all wet, you might as well swim with me.’

  They swam together for about a quarter of an hour and then emerged from the pool, shivering and with their lips turning blue.

  ‘Make a fire, Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said through chattering teeth.

  ‘I didn’t bring any tinder,’ he said, ‘or a flint.’

  ‘Do it the other way, then.’

  ‘What other way?’ he asked blankly.

  ‘You know—’ She made a sort of mysterious gesture.

  ‘Oh. I forgot about that.’

  ‘Hurry, Garion. I’m freezing.’

  He gathered some twigs and fallen branches, cleared a space in the moss, and concentrated his will on the pile of wood. At first, a small tendril of smoke arose, then a tongue of bright orange flame. Within a few minutes, a goodly little fire was crackling just beside the moss-covered hummock upon which the shivering Ce’Nedra was huddled.

  ‘Oh, that’s much better,’ she said, stretching her hands out to the fire. ‘You’re a useful person to have around, my Lord.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lady. Would my Lady like to consider putting on some clothes?’

  ‘Not until she’s dry, she wouldn’t. I hate pulling on dry clothes over wet skin.’

  ‘Let’s hope nobody comes along, then. We’re not really dressed for company, you know.’

  ‘You’re so conventional, Garion.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he admitted.

  ‘Why don’t you come over here beside me?’ she invited. ‘It’s much warmer here.’

  He couldn’t really think of any reason why he shouldn’t, so he joined her on the warm moss.

  ‘See,’ she said, putting her arms about his neck. ‘Isn’t this much nicer?’ She kissed him—a serious kind of kiss that made his breath catch in his throat and his heart pound.

  When she finally released her grip about his neck, he looked around the glade nervously. A fluttering movement near the foot of the pool caught his eye. He coughed, looking slightly embarrassed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think that butterfly is watching,’ he said with a slight flush.

  ‘That’s all right.’ She smiled, sliding her arms about his neck and kissing him again.

  The world seemed unusually quiet as spring gently slipped into summer that year. The secession of the Vordues crumbled under the onslaughts of the armored Mimbrate ‘brigands,’ and the Vodue family finally capitulated, pleading with an almost genuine humility to be readmitted to the Empire. While they were not fond of Varana’s taxcollectors, they all ran out into the streets to greet his legions as they returned.

  The news from Cthol Murgos was sketchy at best, but it appeared that things in the far south remained at an impasse, with Kal Zakath’s Malloreans holding the plains and Urgit’s Murgos firmly entrenched in the mountains.

  Periodic reports forwarded to Garion by Drasnian Intelligence seemed to indicate that the re-emergent Bear-cult was doing little more than mill around out in the countryside.

  Garion enjoyed this respite from crisis and, since there was no really pressing business, he took to sleeping late, sometimes lying in bed in a kind of luxurious doze until two or three hours past sunrise.

  On one such morning about midsummer, he was having an absolutely splendid dream. He and Ce’Nedra were leaping from the loft in the barn at Faldor’s farm into the soft hay piled below. He was awakened rather rudely as his wife bolted from the bed and ran into an adjoining chamber where she was violently and noisily sick.

  ‘Ce’Nedra!’ he exclaimed, jumping out of bed to follow her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m throwing up,’ she replied, raising her pale face from the basin she was holding on her knees.

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No,’ she drawled sarcastically, ‘I’m doing it for fun.’

  ‘I’ll get one of the physicians,’ he said, grabbing up a robe.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘But you’re sick.’

  ‘Of course I am, but I don’t need a physician.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense, Ce’Nedra. If you’re sick, you need a doctor.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be sick,’ she told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you know anything, Garion? I’ll probably get sick every morning for the next several months.’

  ‘I don’t understand you at all, Ce’Nedra.’

  ‘You’re impossibly dense. People in my condition always get sick in the morning.’

  ‘Condition? What condition?’

  She rolled her eyes upward almost in despair. ‘Garion,’ she said with exaggerated patience, ‘do you remember that little problem we had last fall? The problem that made us s
end for Lady Polgara?’

  ‘Well—yes.’

  ‘I’m so glad. Well, we don’t have that problem any more.’

  He stared at her, slowly comprehending. ‘You mean—?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she said with a pale smile. ‘You’re going to be a father. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll throw up again.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  They did not match. No matter how hard Garion twisted and turned the sense of the two passages, there was no apparent way to make them match. Despite the fact that they both seemed to describe the same period of time, they simply went off in opposite directions. It was a bright, golden autumn morning outside, but the dusty library seemed somehow dim, chill, and uninviting.

  Garion did not think of himself as a scholar and he had approached the task that Belgarath had laid upon him with some reluctance. The sheer volume of the documents he was obliged to read was intimidating, for one thing, and this gloomy little room with its smell of ancient parchment and mildewed leather bindings always depressed him. He had done unpleasant things before, and, although he was a bit grim about it, he nonetheless dutifully spent at least two hours a day confined in this prisonlike cell, struggling with ancient books and scrolls written in often-times difficult script. At least, he told himself, it was better than scrubbing pots in a scullery.

  He set his teeth together and laid the two scrolls side by side on the table to compare them again. He read slowly and aloud, hoping perhaps to catch with his ears what his eyes might miss. The Darine Codex seemed relatively clear and straightforward. ‘Behold,’ it said, ‘in the day that Aldur’s Orb burns hot with crimson fire shall the name of the Child of Dark be revealed. Guard well the son of the Child of Light for he shall have no brother. And it shall come to pass that those which once were one and now are two shall be rejoined, and in that rejoining shall one of them be no more.’

  The Orb had turned crimson, and the name of the Child of Dark—Zandramas—had been revealed. That matched what had taken place. The information that the son of the Child of Light—his son—would have no brother had concerned Garion a bit. At first he had taken it to mean that he and Ce’Nedra would only have one child, but the more he thought about that, the more he realized that his reasoning there was flawed. All it really said was that they would only have one son. It said nothing about daughters. The more he thought about it, the more the notion of a whole cluster of chattering little girls gathered about his knee appealed to him.

  The last passage, however—the one about the two which once were one—didn’t really make any sense yet, but he was quite certain that it would, eventually.

  He moved his hand over to trace the lines of the Mrin Codex, peering hard at them in the flickering yellow candlelight. He read slowly and carefully once more. ‘And the Child of Light shall meet with the Child of Dark and shall overcome him—’ That obviously referred to the meeting with Torak. ‘—and the Darkness shall flee.’ The Dark Prophecy had fled when Torak had died. ‘But behold, the stone which lies at the center of the Light—’ The Orb, obviously. ‘—shall—’ One word seemed to be blotted at that point. Garion frowned, trying to make out what word might lie beneath that irregular splotch of ink. Even as he stared at it, a strange kind of weariness came over him, as if the effort to push aside that blot to see what lay beneath were as difficult as moving a mountain. He shrugged and went on, ‘—and this meeting will come to pass in a place which is no more, and there will the choice be made.’

  That last fragment made him want to howl in frustration. How could a meeting—or anything else—happen in a place which is no more? And what was the meaning of the word ‘choice’? What choice? Whose choice? Choice between what and what?

  He swore and read it again. Once again he felt that peculiar lassitude when his eyes reached the blot on the page. He shrugged it off and went on. No matter what the word under the blot might be, it was still only one word, and one single word could not be that important. Irritably he put the scroll aside and considered the discrepancy. The most immediate explanation was that this spot, like so many others, was a place where the Mrin Prophet’s well-known insanity had simply got the best of him. Another possibility was that this particular copy was not precisely accurate. The scribe who had copied it off had perhaps inadvertently skipped a line or two at the time when he had blotted the page. Garion recalled an occasion when he had done that himself, turning a perfectly bland proclamation into a horrendous declaration that he was on the verge of naming himself military dictator of all the kingdoms lying on this side of the Eastern Escarpment. When he had caught the blunder, he had not just erased the offending lines, he had shudderingly burned the whole sheet to make sure that no one ever saw it.

  He stood up, stretching to relieve his cramped muscles and going to the small, barred window of the library. The autumn sky was a crisp blue. The nights had turned chilly in the past few weeks, and the higher meadows lying above the city were touched with frost when the sun arose. The days, however, were warm and golden. He checked the position of the sun to gauge the time. He had promised to meet with Count Valgon, the Tolnedran ambassador, at midday and he did not want to be late. Aunt Pol had stressed the importance of punctuality, and Garion always did his best to be on time.

  He turned back to the table and absently rerolled the two scrolls, his mind still wrestling with the problem of the conflicting pasages. Then he blew out the candles and left the library, carefully closing the door behind him.

  Valgon, as always, was tedious. Garion felt that there was an innate pomposity in the Tolnedran character that made it impossible for them to say what they meant without extensive embellishment. The discussion that day had to do with ‘prioritizing’ the unloading of merchant vessels in the harbor at Riva. Valgon seemed terribly fond of the word ‘prioritizing,’ finding a way to insert it into the discussion at least once in every other sentence. The essense of Valgon’s presentation seemed to be a request—or a demand—that Tolnedran merchantmen should always have first access to the somewhat limited wharves at the foot of the city.

  ‘My dear Valgon,’ Garion began, seeking some diplomatic way to refuse, ‘I actually believe that this matter needs—’ He broke off, looking up as the great carved doors to the throne room swung inward.

  One of the towering, gray-cloaked sentries who always stood guard outside when Garion was in the throne room stepped in, cleared his throat, and announced in a voice that probably could have been heard on the other side of the island, ‘Her Royal Majesty, Queen Ce’Nedra of Riva, Imperial Princess of the Tonedran Empire, Commander of the Armies of the West, and beloved wife of his Majesty, Belgarion of Riva, Godslayer, Lord of the Western Sea, and Overlord of the West!’

  Ce’Nedra, demure and tiny, entered on the sentry’s heels, her shoulders unbowed by the weight of all those vast titles. She wore a teal-green velvet gown, gathered beneath the bodice to conceal her expanding waistline, and her eyes were sparkling mischievously.

  Valgon turned and bowed smoothly.

  Ce’Nedra touched the sentry’s arm, strained up on tiptoe, and whispered to him. The sentry nodded, turned back toward the throne at the front of the hall, and cleared his throat again. ‘His Highness, Prince Kheldar of Drasnia, nephew of the beloved late King Rhodar, and cousin to King Kheva, Lord of the Marches of the North!’

  Garion started up from the throne in astonishment.

  Silk entered grandly. His doublet was a rich pearl gray, his fingers glittered with rings, and a heavy gold chain with a large pendant sapphire hung about his neck. ‘That’s all right, gentlemen,’ he said to Garion and Count Valgon with an airy wave of his hand, ‘you needn’t rise.’ He extended his arm grandly to Ce’Nedra, and the two of them came down the broad, carpeted aisle past the three flowing firepits in the floor.

  ‘Silk!’ Garion exclaimed.

  ‘The very same,’ Silk replied with a mocking little bow. ‘Your Majesty is looking well—considering.’

  ‘Consideri
ng what?’

  Silk winked at him.

  ‘I am quite overwhelmed to meet so famous a merchant prince again,’ Valgon murmured politely. ‘Your Highness has become a legend in recent years. Your exploits in the East are the absolute despair of the great commercial houses in Tol Honeth.’

  ‘One has had a certain modest success,’ Silk responded, breathing on a large ruby ring on his left hand and then polishing it on the front of his doublet. ‘In your next report, please convey my regards to your new Emperor. His handling of the Vordue situation was masterly.’

  Valgon permitted himself a faint smile. ‘I’m sure his Imperial Majesty will appreciate your good opinion, Prince Kheldar.’ He turned to Garion. ‘I know that your Majesty and his old friend will have many things to discuss,’ he said. ‘We can take up this other matter at a later date, perhaps.’ He bowed. ‘With your Majesty’s permission, I will withdraw.’

  ‘Of course, Valgon,’ Garion replied. ‘And thank you.’

  The Tolnedran bowed again and quietly left the throne room.

  Ce’Nedra came down to the foot of the throne and linked her arm affectionately with Silk’s. ‘I hope you didn’t mind being interrupted, Garion,’ she said. ‘I know that you and Valgon were having an absolutely fascinating talk.’

  Garion made a face. ‘What was the idea behind all that formality?’ he asked curiously. ‘The business with all those titles, I mean?’

  Silk grinned. ‘Ce’Nedra’s idea. She felt that if we overwhelmed Valgon with enough titles, we could persuade him to go away. Did we interrupt anything important?’

  Garion gave him a sour look. ‘He was talking about the problem of getting Tonedran merchant vessels unloaded. I think that, if he’d thrown the word “prioritizing” at me about one more time, I’d have jumped up and strangled him.’

  ‘Oh?’ Ce’Nedra said, all wide-eyed and girlish. ‘Let’s call him back, then.’

  ‘I take it that you’re unfond of him,’ Silk suggested.

  ‘He’s a Honethite,’ Ce’Nedra replied, making an indelicate little sound. ‘I despise the Honeths.’