The Malloreon: Book 01 - Guardians of the West

by David Eddings

  ‘It’s one of the principalities of the old Melcene Empire in eastern Mallorea. Zandramas is a Darshivan name. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No. We didn’t.’

  There was a light tap on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Javelin answered.

  The door opened, and a young lady of perhaps nineteen or twenty came in. Her hair was the color of honey, her eyes were a warm, golden brown, and she wore a plain-looking gray dress. Her expression was serious, but there was just the hint of a dimple in each of her cheeks. ‘Uncle,’ she said, and her voice had a kind of vibrancy about it that made it almost irresistibly compelling.

  Javelin’s hard, angular face softened noticeably. ‘Yes, Liselle?’ he said.

  ‘Is this little Liselle?’ Silk exclaimed.

  ‘Not quite so little any more,’ Javelin said.

  ‘The last time I saw her, she was still in braids.’

  ‘She combed out the braids a few years ago,’ Javelin said drily, ‘and look what was hiding under them.’

  ‘I am looking,’ Silk said admiringly.

  ‘The reports you wanted, uncle,’ the girl said, laying a sheaf of parchment on the table. Then she turned to Kheva and curtsied to him with incredible grace. ‘Your Highness,’ she greeted him.

  ‘Margravine Liselle,’ the little prince replied with a polite bow.

  ‘And Prince Kheldar,’ the girl said then.

  ‘We weren’t at all so formal when you were a child,’ Silk protested.

  ‘But then, I’m not a child any more, your Highness.’

  Silk looked over at Javelin. ‘When she was a little girl, she used to pull my nose.’

  ‘But it’s such a long, interesting nose,’ Liselle said. And then she smiled, and the dimples suddenly sprang to life.

  ‘Liselle is helping out here,’ Javelin said. ‘She’ll be entering the academy in a few months.’

  ‘You’re going to be a spy?’ Silk asked her incredulously.

  ‘It’s the family business, Prince Kheldar. My father and mother were both spies. My uncle here is a spy. All of my friends are spies. How could I possibly be anything else?’

  Silk looked a trifle off-balance. ‘It just doesn’t seem appropriate, for some reason.’

  ‘That probably means that I’ll be quite successful, doesn’t it? You look like a spy, Prince Kheldar. I don’t, so I won’t have nearly as many problems as you’ve had.’

  Though the girl’s answers were clever, even pert, Errand could see something in her warm, brown eyes that Silk probably could not. Despite the fact that the Margravine Liselle was obviously a grown woman, Silk just as obviously still thought of her as a little girl—one who had pulled his nose. The look she gave him, however, was not the look of a little girl, and Errand realized that she had been waiting for a number of years for the opportunity to meet Silk on adult terms. Errand covered his mouth with his hand to hide a smile. The wily Prince Kheldar had some very interesting times ahead of him.

  The door opened again, and a nondescript man came in, quickly crossed to the table, and whispered something to Javelin. The man’s face, Errand noticed, was pale, and his hands were trembling.

  Javelin’s face grew set, and he sighed. He gave no other outward sign of emotion, however. He rose to his feet and came around the table. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said formally to Prince Kheva, ‘I believe that you should return to the palace immediately.’

  Silk and Liselle both caught the changed form of address and looked sharply at the Chief of Drasnian Intelligence.

  ‘I believe that we should all accompany the King back to the palace,’ Javelin said sadly. ‘We must offer our condolences to his mother and aid her in any way we can in her hour of grief.’

  The King of Drasnia looked at his intelligence chief, his eyes very wide and his lip trembling.

  Errand gently took the little boy’s hand in his. ‘We’d better go, Kheva,’ he said. ‘Your mother will need you very much right now.’

  Chapter Eight

  The Kings of Aloria gathered in Boktor for the funeral of King Rhodar and the subsequent coronation of his son, Kheva. Such a gathering, of course, was traditional. Though the nations of the north had diverged somewhat over the centuries, the Alorns nonetheless had never forgotten their origins in the single kingdom of King Cherek Bear-shoulders five thousand years in the dim past, and they came together at such times in sadness to bury a brother. Because King Rhodar had been beloved and respected by other nations as well, Anheg of Cherek, Cho-Hag of Algaria, and Belgarion of Riva were joined by Fulrach of Sendaria, Korodullin of Arendia, and even by the erratic Drosta lek Thun of Gar og Nadrak. In addition, General Varana was present as the representative of Emperor Ran Borune XXIII of Tolnedra, and Sadi, Chief Eunuch of the palace of Queen Salmissra of Nyissa, was also in attendance.

  The burial of an Alorn King was a serious matter, and it involved certain ceremonies at which only the other Alorn monarchs were present. No gathering of so many kings and high-ranking functionaries, however, could ever be entirely ceremonial. Inevitably, politics were of major concern in the quiet discussions which took place in the somberly draped corridors of the palace.

  Errand, soberly dressed and quiet, drifted from one small gathering to another in those days preceeding the funeral. The Kings all knew him, but they seemed for some reason to take little note of his presence, and so he heard many conversations which he might perhaps not have heard had they stopped to consider the fact that he was no longer the little boy they had known during the campaign in Mishrak ac Thull.

  The Alorn Kings—Belgarion in his usual blue doublet and hose, the brutish-looking Anheg in his rumpled blue robe and dented crown, and quiet-voiced Cho-Hag in silver and black—stood together in a sable-draped embrasure in one of the broad hallways of the palace.

  ‘Porenn is going to have to serve as regent,’ Garion said. ‘Kheva is only six, and somebody’s going to have to run things until he’s old enough to take charge himself.’

  ‘A woman?’ Anheg said, aghast.

  ‘Anheg, are we going to have that argument again?’ Cho-Hag asked mildly.

  ‘I don’t see any alternative, Anheg,’ Garion said in his most persuasive manner. ‘King Drosta is almost drooling at the prospect of a boy king on the throne of Drasnia. His troops will be biting off chunks of the borderlands before the rest of us get home unless we put someone in charge here.’

  ‘But Porenn is so tiny,’ Anheg objected irrationally, ‘and so pretty. How can she possibly run a kingdom?’

  ‘Probably very well,’ Cho-Hag replied, shifting his weight carefully on his crippled legs. ‘Rhodar confided in her completely, and she was behind the scheme that eliminated Grodeg, after all.’

  ‘About the only other person in Drasnia competent enough to take charge here is the Margrave Khendon,’ Garion told the King of Cherek. ‘The one they call Javelin. Do you want the Chief of Drasnian Intelligence sitting behind the throne giving orders?’

  Anheg shuddered. ‘That’s a ghastly thought. What about Prince Kheldar?’

  Garion stared at him. ‘You’re not serious, Anheg,’ he said incredulously. ‘Silk? As regent?’

  ‘You might be right,’ Anheg conceded after a moment’s thought. ‘He is just a little unreliable, isn’t he?’

  ‘A little?’ Garion laughed.

  ‘Are we agreed, then?’ Cho-Hag asked. ‘It has to be Porenn, right?’

  Anheg grumbled, but finally agreed.

  The Algar King turned to Garion. ‘You’ll probably have to issue a proclamation.’

  ‘Me? I don’t have any authority in Drasnia.’

  ‘You’re the Overlord of the West,’ Cho-Hag reminded him. ‘Just announce that you recognize Porenn’s regency and declare that anyone who argues about it or violates her borders will have to answer to you.’

  ‘That should back Drosta off.’ Anheg chuckled grossly. ‘He’s almost more frightened of you than he is of Zakath. He probably has nightmares about your flami
ng sword sliding between his ribs.’

  In another corridor, Errand came upon General Varana and Sadi the Eunuch. Sadi wore the mottled, iridescent silk robe of the Nyissans, and the general was draped in a silver Tolnedran mantle with broad bands of gold-colored trim across his shoulders.

  ‘So, it’s official, then?’ Sadi said in his oddly contralto voice, eyeing the general’s mantle.

  ‘What’s that?’ Varana asked him. The general was a blocky-looking man with iron-gray hair and a slightly amused expression.

  ‘We had heard rumors in Sthiss Tor that Ran Borune had adopted you as his son.’

  ‘Expediency.’ Varana shrugged. ‘The major families of the Empire were dismantling Tolnedra in their scramble for the throne. Ran Borune had to take steps to quiet things down.’

  ‘You will take the throne when he dies, though, won’t you?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Varana replied evasively. ‘Let’s pray that his Majesty will live for many years yet.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sadi murmured. ‘The silver mantle of the crown prince does become you, however, my dear General.’ He rubbed one long-fingered hand over his shaved scalp.

  ‘Thank you,’ Varana said with a slight bow. ‘And how are affairs in Salmissra’s palace?’

  Sadi laughed sardonically. ‘The same as they always are. We connive and plot and scheme against each other, and every scrap of food prepared in our kitchens is tainted with poison.’

  ‘I’d heard that was the custom,’ Varana remarked. ‘How does one survive in such a lethal atmosphere?’

  ‘Nervously,’ Sadi replied, making a sour face. ‘We are all on a strict regimen. We routinely dose ourselves with every known antidote to every known poison. Some of the poisons are actually quite flavorful. The antidotes all taste foul, however.’

  ‘The price of power, I suppose.’

  ‘Truly. What was the reaction of the Grand dukes of Tolnedra when the Emperor designated you his heir?’

  Varana laughed. ‘You could hear the screams echoing from the wood of the Dryads to the Arendish border.’

  ‘When the time comes, you may have to step on a few necks.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Of course the legions are all loyal to you.’

  ‘The legions are a great comfort to me.’

  ‘I think I like you, General Varana,’ the shaved-headed Nyissan said. ‘I’m certain that you and I will be able to come to some mutually profitable accommodations.’

  ‘I always like to be on good terms with my neighbors, Sadi,’ Varana agreed with aplomb.

  In another corridor, Errand found a strangely assorted group. King Fulrach of Sendaria, dressed in sober, businesslike brown, was speaking quietly with the purple-garbed King Korodullin of Arendia and with the scabrous-looking Drosta lek Thun, who wore a richly jeweled doublet of an unwholesome-looking yellow.

  ‘Have either of you heard anything about any decisions concerning a regency?’ the emaciated Nadrak king asked in his shrill voice. Drosta’s eyes bulged, seemingly almost to start out of his pock-marked face, and he fidgeted continuously.

  ‘I would imagine that Queen Porenn will guide the young king,’ Fulrach surmised.

  ‘They surely wouldn’t put a woman in charge,’ Drosta scoffed. ‘I know Alorns, and they all look at women as subhuman.’

  ‘Porenn is not exactly like other women,’ the King of Sendaria noted. ‘She’s extraordinarily gifted.’

  ‘How could a woman possibly defend the borders of so large a kingdom as Drasnia?’

  ‘Thy perception is awry, your Majesty,’ Korodullin told the Nadrak with uncharacteristic bluntness. ‘Inevitably, the other Alorn Kings will support her, and most particularly Belgarion of Riva will defend her. Methinks no monarch alive would be so foolhardy as to counter the wishes of the Overlord of the West.’

  ‘Riva’s a long way away,’ Drosta suggested, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Not that far, Drosta,’ Fulrach told him. ‘Belgarion has a very long arm.’

  ‘What news hast thou heard from the south, your Majesty?’ Korodullin asked the King of the Nadraks.

  Drosta made an indelicate sound. ‘Kal Zakath is wading in Murgo blood,’ he said disgustedly. ‘He’s pushed Urgit into the western mountains and he’s butchering every Murgo he can lay his hands on. I keep hoping that someone will stick an arrow into him, but you can’t depend on a Murgo to do anything right.’

  ‘Have you considered an alliance with King Gethell?’ Fulrach asked.

  ‘With the Thulls? You’re not serious, Fulrach. I wouldn’t saddle myself with the Thulls, even if it meant that I had to face the Malloreans alone. Gethell’s so afraid of Zakath that he wets himself at the mention of his name. After the Battle of Thull Mardu, Zakath told my Thullish cousin that the very next time Gethell displeased him, he was going to have Gethell crucified. If Kal Zakath decides to come north, Gethell will probably hide himself under the nearest manure pile.’

  ’Zakath is not overfond of thee either, I am told,’ Korodullin said.

  Drosta laughed a shrill, somehow hysterical-sounding laugh. ‘He wants to grill me over a slow fire,’ he replied. ‘And possibly use my skin to make a pair of shoes.’

  ‘I’m amazed that you Angaraks didn’t destroy each other eons ago.’ Fulrach smiled.

  ‘Torak told us not to.’ Drosta shrugged. ‘And he told his Grolims to gut anybody who disobeyed. We may not always have liked Torak, but we always did what he told us to. Only an idiot did otherwise—a dead idiot, usually.’

  On the following day, Belgarath the Sorcerer arrived from the East, and King Rhodar of Drasnia was laid to rest. The small blonde Queen Porenn, dressed in deepest black, stood beside young King Kheva during the ceremony. Prince Kheldar stood directly behind the young king and his mother, and there was a strange, almost haunted look in his eyes. As Errand looked at him, he could see very plainly that the little spy had loved his uncle’s tiny wife for years, but also that Porenn, though she was fond of him, did not return that love. State funerals, like all state functions, are long. Both Queen Porenn and her young son were very pale during the interminable proceedings, but at no time did either of them show any outward signs of grief.

  Immediately following the funeral, Kheva’s coronation took place, and the newly crowned Drasnian king announced in a piping but firm voice that his mother would guide him through the difficult years ahead.

  At the conclusion of the ceremony, Belgarion, King of Riva and Overlord of the West, arose and briefly addressed the assembled notables. He welcomed Kheva to the rather exclusive fraternity of reigning monarchs, complimented him on the wisdom of the choice of the Queen Mother as regent and then advised one and all that he fully supported Queen Porenn and that anyone offering her the slightest impertinence would most surely regret it. Since he was leaning on the massive sword of Riva Iron-grip as he made that declaration, everyone in the Drasnian throne room took him very seriously.

  A few days later, the visitors all departed.

  Spring had come to the plains of Algaria as Polgara, Durnik, Errand, and Belgarath rode southward in the company of King Cho-Hag and Queen Silar.

  ‘A sad journey,’ Cho-Hag said to Belgarath as they rode. ‘I’m going to miss Rhodar.’

  ‘I think we all will,’ Belgarath replied. He looked ahead where a vast herd of cattle under the watchful eyes of a band of Algar clansmen was plodding slowly west toward the mountains of Sendaria and the great cattle fair at Muros. ‘I’m a little surprised that Hettar agreed to go back to Riva with Garion at this time of year. He’s usually at the head of the cattle herds.’

  ‘Adara persuaded him,’ Queen Silar told the old man. ‘She and Ce’Nedra wanted to spend some time together, and there’s almost nothing that Hettar won’t do for his wife.’

  Polgara smiled. ‘Poor Hettar,’ she said. ‘With both Adara and Ce’Nedra working on him, he didn’t stand a chance. That’s a pair of very determined young ladies.’

  ‘The change
of scenery will do him good,’ Cho-Hag noted. ‘He always gets restless in the summertime and, now that all the Murgos have retreated to the south, he can’t even amuse himself by hunting down their raiding parties.’

  When they reached southern Algaria, Cho-Hag and Silar bade them farewell and turned eastward toward the Stronghold. The rest of the ride south to the Vale was uneventful. Belgarath stayed at the cottage for a few days and then prepared to return to his tower. Almost as an afterthought, he invited Errand to accompany him.

  ‘We are a bit behind here, father,’ Polgara told him. ‘I need to get my garden in, and Durnik has a great deal of work ahead of him after this past winter.’

  ‘Then it’s probably best if the boy is out from underfoot, isn’t it?’

  She gave him a long steady look and then finally gave up. ‘Oh, very well, father,’ she said.

  ‘I knew you’d see it my way, Pol,’ he said.

  ‘Just don’t keep him all summer.’

  ‘Of course not. I want to talk with the twins for a while and see if Beldin has come back. I’ll be off again in a month or so. I’ll bring him home then.’

  And so Errand and Belgarath went on down into the heart of the Vale again and once more took up residence in the old man’s tower. Beldin had not yet returned from Mallorea, but Belgarath had much to discuss with Beltira and Belkira, and so Errand and his chestnut stallion were left largely to find their own amusements.

  It was on a bright summer morning that they turned toward the western edge of the Vale to explore the foothills that marked the boundary of Ulgoland. They had ridden for several miles through those rolling, tree-clad hills and stopped in a broad, shallow ravine where a tumbling brook babbled over mossy green stones. The morning sun was very warm, and the shade of the tall, fragrant pines was pleasant.

  As they sat, a she-wolf padded quietly from out of the bushes at the edge of the brook, stopped, and sat on her haunches to look at them. There was about the she-wolf a peculiar blue nimbus, a soft glow that seemed to emanate from her thick fur.

  The normal reaction of a horse to the presence or even the scent of a wolf would have been blind panic, but the stallion returned the blue wolf’s gaze calmly, with not even so much as a hint of a tremor.