Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  THE HIGH PRIEST of Belar was an imposing-looking man nearly seven feet tall. He had a long gray beard and burning eyes sunk deep in their sockets beneath bristling black eyebrows. He arrived from Val Alorn the following week after the seemingly endless negotiations had finally produced the official betrothal document. Accompanying him as a kind of retinue were two dozen hard-faced warriors dressed in bearskins.

  "Bear-cultists," Barak observed sourly to Garion and Silk as the three of them stood atop the wall of the Citadel, watching the High Priest and his men mounting the steps from the harbor in the bright spring sunshine.

  "I didn't say anything about bringing soldiers with him," Garion objected indignantly.

  "I imagine he took it upon himself," Silk replied. "Grodeg's very good at taking things upon himself."

  "I wonder how he'd like it if I threw him into a dungeon," Garion said hotly. "Do I have a dungeon?"

  "We could improvise one, I suppose." Barak grinned at him. "Some nice damp cellar someplace. You might have to import some rats, though. The island's reputed to be free of them."

  "You're making fun of me," Garion accused his friend, flushing slightly.

  "Now you know I wouldn't do that, Garion," Barak replied, pulling at his beard.

  "I'd talk with Belgarath before I had Grodeg clapped in irons, though," Silk suggested. "The political implications might go a bit further than you intend. Whatever you do, don't let Grodeg talk you into letting him leave any of his men behind. He's been trying to get a foothold on the Isle of the Winds for twenty years now. Not even Brand has had the nerve to let him go that far."

  "Brand?"

  "Isn't it obvious? I wouldn't want to say that Brand's a cult member, but his sympathies certainly lie in that direction."

  Garion was shocked at that, and a little sick. "What do you think I ought to do?" he asked.

  "Don't try to play politics with these people," Barak replied. "Grodeg's here to conduct the official betrothal ceremony. Just let it go at that."

  "He'll try to talk to me, though," Garion fretted. "He's going to try to make me lead an invasion of the southern kingdoms so that he can convert the Arends and Tolnedrans and Nyissans to the worship of Belar."

  "Where did you hear that?" Silk asked curiously.

  "I'd rather not say," Garion evaded.

  "Does Belgarath know?"

  Garion nodded. "Aunt Pol told him."

  Silk chewed thoughtfully on a fingernail. "Just be stupid," he said finally.

  "What?"

  "Pretend to be a simple country bumpkin with no idea of what's going on. Grodeg's going to do everything he can to get you alone so he can wring concessions out of you. Just keep smiling and nodding foolishly, and every time he makes a proposal, send for Belgarath. Let him think that you can't make a single decision on your own."

  "Won't that make me seem - well -?"

  "Do you really care what he thinks?"

  "Well, not really, I guess, but "

  "It will drive him crazy," Barak pointed out with a wicked grin. "He'll think that you're a complete idiot - a ripe plum ready for picking. But he'll realize that if he wants you, he'll have to fight Belgarath to get you. He'll be tearing out his beard in frustration before he leaves."

  He turned and looked admiringly at Silk. "That's really a terrible thing to do to a man like Grodeg, you know."

  Silk smirked. "Isn't it though?"

  The three of them stood grinning at each other and finally burst into laughter.

  The official betrothal ceremony was conducted the following day. There had been a great deal of haggling about who should enter the Hall of the Rivan King first, but that difficulty had been overcome by Belgarath's suggestion that Garion and Ce'Nedra could enter arm in arm. "This is all in preparation for a wedding, after all," he had pointed out. "We might as well start off with a semblance at least of friendship."

  Garion was very nervous as the hour approached. His princess had been smoldering since the incident with the amulet, and he was almost certain that there was going to be trouble. But to his surprise, Ce'Nedra was radiant as the two of them waited alone together in a small antechamber while the official guests gathered in the Hall. Garion fidgeted a great deal and walked up and down, nervously adjusting his clothing, but Ce'Nedra sat rather demurely, patiently awaiting the trumpet fanfare which was to announce their entrance.

  "Garion," she said after a while.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you remember that time we bathed together in the Wood of the Dryads?"

  "We did not bathe together," Garion replied quickly, blushing to the roots of his hair.

  "Well, very nearly." She brushed his distinction aside. "Do you realize that Lady Polgara kept throwing us together like that all the time we were travelling? She knew that all this was going to happen, didn't she?"

  "Yes," Garion admitted.

  "So she kept shoving us at each other, hoping something might happen between us."

  Garion thought about that. "You're probably right," he concluded.

  "She likes to arrange people's lives for them."Ce'Nedra sighed. "Look at all the opportunities we missed," she said somewhat regretfully.

  "Ce'Nedral" Garion gasped, shocked at her suggestion.

  She giggled a bit wickedly. Then she sighed again. "Now it's all going to be dreadfully official - and probably not nearly as much fun."

  Garion's face was flaming by now.

  "Anyway," she continued, "that time we bathed together - do you remember that I asked you if you'd like to kiss me?"

  Garion nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  "I never got that kiss, you know," she said archly, standing up and crossing the small room to him, "and I think I'd like it now."

  She took hold of the front of his doublet firmly with both little hands. "You owe me a kiss, Belgarion of Riva, and a Tolnedran always collects what people owe her." The look she directed up through her lashes at him smoldered dangerously.

  Just outside, the trumpets blared out an extended fanfare.

  "We're supposed to go in now," Garion sputtered a bit desperately.

  "Let them wait," she murmured, her arms sliding up around his neck.

  Garion tried for a quick, perfunctory kiss, but his princess had other ideas. Her little arms were surprisingly strong, and her fingers locked in his hair. The kiss was lingering, and Garion's knees began to tremble.

  "There," Ce'Nedra breathed when she finally released him.

  "We'd better go in," Garion suggested as the trumpets blared again.

  "In a moment. Did you muss me?" She turned around so that he could inspect her.

  "No," he replied. "Everything still seems to be in order."

  She shook her head rather disapprovingly. "Try to do a little better next time," she told him. "Otherwise I might start to think that you're not taking me seriously."

  "I'm never going to understand you, Ce'Nedra."

  "I know," she said with a mysterious little smile. Then she patted his cheek gently. "And I'm going to do everything I can to keep it that way. Shall we go in? We really shouldn't keep our guests waiting, you know."

  "That's what I said in the first place."

  "We were busy then," she declared with a certain grand indifference. "Just a moment." She carefully smoothed his hair. "There. That's better. Now give me your arm."

  Garion extended his arm, and his princess laid her hand on it. Then he opened the door to the third chorus from the trumpets. They entered the Hall, and an excited buzz ran through the crowd assembled there. Taking his cue from Ce'Nedra, Garion moved at a stately pace, his face sober and regal-looking.

  "Not quite so grim," she whispered. "Smile just a little - and nod occasionally. It's the thing to do."

  "If you say so," he replied. "I really don't know too much about this sort of thing."

  "You'll be just fine," she assured him.

  Smiling and nodding to the spectators, the royal couple passed through the Hall to the chair t
hat had been placed near the front for the princess. Garion held the chair for her, then bowed and mounted the dais to his throne. As always happened, the Orb of Aldur began to glow as soon as he sat down. This time, however, it seemed to have a faint pink cast to it.

  The official betrothal ceremony began with a rolling invocation delivered in a thunderous voice by the High Priest of Belar. Grodeg took full advantage of the dramatics of the situation.

  "Tiresome old windbag, isn't he?" Belgarath murmured from his accustomed place at the right of the throne.

  "What were you and Ce'Nedra doing in there?" Aunt Pol asked Garion.

  "Nothing," Garion replied, blushing furiously.

  "Really? And it took you all that time? How extraordinary."

  Grodeg had begun reading the first clauses of the betrothal agreement. To Garion they sounded like pure gibberish. At various points Grodeg stopped his reading to look sternly at Garion.

  "Does His Majesty, Belgarion of Riva, agree to this?" he demanded each time.

  "I do," Garion replied.

  "Does Her Highness Ce'Nedra of the Tolnedran Empire agree to this?" Grodeg asked the princess.

  Ce'Nedra responded in a clear voice, "I do."

  "How are you two getting along?" Belgarath asked, ignoring the droning voice of the clergyman.

  "Who knows?" Garion answered helplessly. "I can't tell from one minute to the next what she's going to do."

  "That's the way it's supposed to be," Aunt Pol told him.

  "I don't suppose you'd consider explaining that."

  "No, dear," she replied with a smile as mysterious as Ce'Nedra's had been.

  "I didn't really think so," he grumbled.

  Garion thought about Ce'Nedra's rather open invitation to muss her during the interminable reading of the document which was firmly nailing down the remainder of his life, and the more he thought about it, the more he found the notion of a bit of polite mussing attractive. He rather hoped that the princess would linger after the ceremony and that they might go someplace private to discuss it. Following Grodeg's pompous benediction, however, Ce'Nedra was immediately surrounded by all the younger girls in the court and swept away for some private celebration of their own. From all the giggling and wicked little glances cast in his direction, he concluded that the conversation at their little get-together was going to be very frank, probably naughty, and that the less he knew about it the better.

  As Silk and Barak had predicted, the High Priest of Belar tried several times to speak to Garion privately. Each time, however, Garion put on a great show of ingenuousness and sent immediately for Belgarath. Grodeg left the island with his entire retinue the following day. To add a final insult to the whole matter, Garion insisted that he and Belgarath accompany the fuming ecclesiast to his ship to see him off - and to be certain that no Bear-cultist might inadvertently be left behind.

  "Whose idea was all of this?" Belgarath inquired as he and Garion climbed the steps back to the Citadel.

  "Silk and I worked it out," Garion replied smugly.

  "I might have known."

  "I thought things went quite well," Garion congratulated himself.

  "You've made yourself a dangerous enemy, you know."

  "We can handle him."

  "You're getting to be very free with that 'we,' Garion," Belgarath said disapprovingly.

  "We're all in this together, aren't we, Grandfather?"

  Belgarath looked at him helplessly for a moment and then began to laugh.

  In the days that followed Grodeg's departure, however, there was little occasion for laughter. Once the official ceremonies were over, the Alorn Kings, King Fulrach, and various advisers and generals got down to business. Their subject was war.

  "The most recent reports I have from Cthol Murgos indicate that Taur Urgas is preparing to move the southern Murgos up from Rak Hagga as soon as the weather breaks on the eastern coast," King Rhodar advised them.

  "And the Nadraks?" King Anheg asked.

  "They appear to be mobilizing, but there's always a question about the Nadraks. They play their own game, so it takes a lot of Grolims to whip them into line. The Thulls just obey orders."

  "The Thulls don't really concern anyone," Brand observed. "The key to the whole situation is how many Malloreans are going to be able to take the field against us."

  "There's a staging area for them being set up at Thull Zelik," Rhodar reported, "but they're also waiting for the weather to break in the Sea of the East."

  King Anheg frowned thoughtfully. "Malloreans are bad sailors," he mused. "They won't move until summer, and they'll hug the north coast all the way to Thull Zelik. We need to get a fleet into the Sea of the East as soon as possible. If we can sink enough of their ships and drown enough of their soldiers, we might be able to keep them out of the war entirely. I think we should strike in force into Gar og Nadrak. Once we get into the forests, my men can build ships. We'll sail down the River Cordu and out into the Sea of the East."

  "Thy plan hath merit, your Majesty," Mandorallen approved, studying the large map hanging on the wall. "The Nadraks are fewest in number and farthest removed from the hordes of southern Cthol Murgos."

  King Rhodar shook his head stubbornly. "I know you want to get to the sea as quickly as possible, Anheg," he objected, "but you're committing me to a campaign in the Nadrak forest. I need open country to maneuver in. If we strike at the Thulls, we can cut directly across to the upper reaches of the River Mardu, and you can sail on down to the sea that way."

  "There aren't that many trees in Mishrak ac Thull," Anheg protested.

  "Why build ships out of green lumber if you don't have to?" Rhodar asked. "Why not sail up the Aldur and then portage across?"

  "You want my men to portage ships up the eastern escarpment? Rhodar, be serious."

  "We have engineers, Anheg. They can devise ways to lift your ships to the top of the escarpment."

  Garion did not want to intrude his inexperience on the conference, but the question came out before he had time to think about it. "Have we decided where the final battle's going to be?" he asked.

  "Which final battle was that, Garion?" Rhodar asked politely.

  "When we meet them head-on - like Vo Mimbre."

  "There won't be a Vo Mimbre in this war," Anheg told him. "Not if we can help it."

  "Vo Mimbre was a mistake, Garion," Belgarath said quietly. "We all knew it, but there wasn't anything we could do about it."

  "We won, didn't we?"

  "That was pure luck, and you can't plan a campaign on the hope that you might get lucky. Nobody wanted the battle at Vo Mimbre - we didn't, and Kal Torak didn't, but nobody had any choice in the matter. We had to commit to battle before the second Angarak column arrived in the West. Kal Torak had been holding the southern Murgos and eastern Malloreans in reserve near Rak Hagga, and they started to march when he turned west from the siege of the Stronghold. If they'd been able to join forces with Kal Torak, there wouldn't have been enough men in all the West to meet them, so we had to fight. Vo Mimbre was the least objectionable battlefield."

  "Why didn't Kal Torak just wait until they arrived?" Garion asked.

  "You can't stop an army in unfriendly territory, King Belgarion," Colonel Brendig explained. "You have to keep moving, or the local populace destroys all the food and starts coming out at night to cut up your people. You can lose half your army that way."

  "Kal Torak didn't want the meeting at Vo Mimbre any more than we did," Belgarath went on. "The column from Rak Hagga got caught in a spring blizzard in the mountains and bogged down for weeks. They finally had to turn back, and Torak was forced to fight at Vo Mimbre without any advantage of numbers, and nobody in his right mind goes into battle that way."

  "Thy force should be larger by a quarter than thine adversary's," Mandorallen agreed, "else the outcome must be in doubt."

  "By a third," Barak corrected in a rumbling voice. "By half if you can arrange it."

  "Then all we're going t
o do is spread out all over the eastern half of the continent and fight a whole series of little battles?" Garion demanded incredulously. "That could take years - decades. It could go on for a century."

  "If it has to," Belgarath told him bluntly. "What did you expect, Garion? A short little ride in the sunshine, a nice easy fight, and then home before winter? I'm afraid it won't be like that. You'd better get used to wearing armor and a sword, because you'll probably be dressed that way for most of the rest of your life. This is likely to be a very long war."

  Garion's illusions were crumbling rapidly.

  The door to the council room opened, then, and Olban, Brand's youngest son, entered and spoke with his father. The weather had turned blustery, and a spring storm was raking the island. Olban's gray Rivan cloak was dripping as he entered.

  Dismayed by the prospect of year after year of campaigning in the East, Garion distractedly stared at the puddle forming around Olban's feet as the young man talked quietly with Brand. Then, out of habit, he lifted his eyes slightly to look at the hem of Olban's cloak. There was a small tear on the left corner of the cloak, and a scrap of cloth seemed to be missing.

  Garion stared at the telltale rip for a moment without realizing exactly what it was he saw. Then he went suddenly cold. With a slight start, he jerked his eyes up to look at Olban's face. Brand's youngest son was perhaps Garion's own age, a bit shorter, but more muscular. His hair was pale blond, and his young face was serious, reflecting already the customary Rivan gravity. He seemed to be trying to avoid Garion's eyes, but showed no other sign of nervousness. Once, however, he looked inadvertently at the young king and seemed to flinch slightly as guilt rose clearly into his eyes. Garion had found the man who had tried to kill him.

  The conference continued after that, but Garion did not hear any more of it. What was he to do? Had Olban acted alone, or were others involved? Had Brand himself been a part of it? It was so difficult to know what a Rivan was thinking. He trusted Brand, but the big Warder's connection with the Bear-cult gave a certain ambiguity to his loyalties. Could Grodeg be behind all this? Or perhaps a Grolim? Garion remembered the Earl of Jarvik, whose soul had been purchased by Asharak and who had mounted rebellion in Val Alorn. Had Olban fallen perhaps under the spell of the blood-red gold of Angarak as Jarvik had? But Riva was an island, the one place in the world where no Grolim could ever come. Garion discounted the possibility of bribery. In the first place, it was not in the Rivan character. In the second, Olban had not likely ever been in a situation to come into contact with a Grolim. Rather grimly, Garion decided on a course of action.