"How little thou knowest of women." Ariana gave Lelldorin an adoring look - a look he fatuously returned.
"Will you two stop that?" Garion demanded irritably. "Can't you wait until you're alone to carry on that way?"
"My heart is too full of love for me to hide it, Garion," Lelldorin said extravagantly.
"So I've noticed," Garion said dryly. "I've got to go see Silk, so I'll leave you two to your amusements."
Ariana blushed, then smiled. "Might we take that as a royal command, your Majesty?" she asked archly.
Garion fled.
Silk had arrived from the east late the previous evening, and Garion was anxious for news. He found the little Drasnian lingering over a breakfast of partridge and hot, spiced wine.
"Isn't that a little heavy for breakfast?" Garion asked him.
"I've never been that partial to gruel first thing in the morning," Silk replied. "Gruel's the sort of thing a man has to work himself up to."
Garion went directly to the point. "What's happening in Cthol Murgos?"
"'Zakath is still laying siege to Rak Goska," Silk reported. "He's transporting in more troops, though. It's pretty obvious that he's going to strike into southern Cthol Murgos as soon as the ground's firm enough to move an army."
"Are the Thulls with him?"
"Only a few. Most of them are concentrating on finding the few Grolims left in their kingdom. I always thought Thulls were a stupid people, but you'd be amazed at how creative they can be when it comes to finding new and interesting ways for Grolims to die."
"We're going to have to keep an eye on 'Zakath," Garion said. "I wouldn't want him to come creeping up on me from the south."
"I think you can count on him not to creep," Silk said. "He sent you a message of congratulations, incidentally."
"He did what?"
"He's a civilized man, Garion - and a politician. He was badly shaken by the fact that you killed Torak. I think he's actually afraid of you, so he wants to stay on your good side - at least until he finishes up in southern Cthol Murgos."
"Who's in command of the Murgos, now that Taur Urgas is dead?"
"Urgit, his third son by his second wife. There was the usual squabble over the succession by the various sons of Taur Urgas's assorted wives. The fatalities were numerous, I understand."
"What kind of man is Urgit?"
"He's a schemer. I don't think he's any match for 'Zakath, but he'll keep the Malloreans busy for ten or twenty years. By then, 'Zakath may be too old and tired of war to give you any problems."
"Let's hope so."
"Oh, I almost forgot. Hettar married your cousin last week."
"Adara? I thought she was ill."
"Not that much, apparently. They're coming to your wedding along with Cho-Hag and Silar."
"Is everybody getting married?"
Silk laughed. "Not me, my young friend. In spite of this universal plunge toward matrimony, I still haven't lost my senses. If worse comes to worst, I still know how to run. The Algars should arrive sometime this morning. They met Korodullin's entourage, and they're all coming together. Their ship was right behind mine when we left Camaar."
"Was Mandorallen with them?"
Silk nodded. "Along with the Baroness of Vo Ebor. The Baron's still much too ill to travel. I think he's hoping that he'll die, to leave the way clear for his wife and Mandorallen."
Garion sighed.
"Don't let it make you unhappy, Garion," Silk advised. "Arends actually enjoy that kind of misery. Mandorallen's perfectly content to suffer nobly."
"That's a rotten thing to say," Garion accused the little man.
Silk shrugged. "I'm a rotten sort of person," he admitted.
"Where are you going after-" Garion left it hanging.
"After I see you safely married?" Silk suggested pleasantly. "As soon as I recover from all the drinking I'll do tonight, I'll be off for Gar og Nadrak. There's a great deal of opportunity in the new situation there. I've been in contact with Yarblek. He and I are going to form a partnership."
"With Yarblek?"
"He's not so bad - if you keep an eye on him - and he's very shrewd. We'll probably do rather well together."
"I can imagine." Garion laughed. "One of you is bad enough all by himself, but with the two of you acting together, no honest merchant's going to escape with his skin."
Silk grinned wickedly. "That was sort of what we had in mind."
"I imagine that you'll get very rich."
"I suppose I could learn to live with that." Silk's eyes took on a distant look. "That's not really what it's all about, though," he noted. "It's a game. The money's just a way of keeping score. It's the game that's important."
"It seems to me that you told me that once before."
"Nothing's changed since then, Garion," Silk told him with a laugh.
Aunt Pol's wedding to Durnik took place later that morning in a small, private chapel in the west wing of the Citadel. There were but few guests. Belgarath and the twins, Beltira and Belkira, were there of course, and Silk and Barak. Aunt Pol, beautiful in a deep blue velvet gown, was attended by Queen Layla, and Garion stood with Durnik. The ceremony was performed by the hunchbacked Beldin, dressed for once in decent clothing and with a strangely gentle expression on his ugly face.
Garion's emotions were very complex during the ceremony. He realized with a sharp little pang that Aunt Pol would no longer be exclusively his. An elemental, childish part of him resented that. He was, however, pleased that it was Durnik whom she was marrying. If anyone deserved her, it was Durnik. The good, plain man's eyes were filled with absolute love, and he obviously could not take them from her face. Aunt Pol herself was gravely radiant as she stood at Durnik's side.
As Garion stepped back while the two exchanged vows, he heard a faint rustle. Just inside the door of the chapel, in a hooded cloak that covered her from head to foot and wearing a heavy veil that covered her face, stood Princess Ce'Nedra. She had made a large issue of the fact that by an ancient Tolnedran custom, Garion was not supposed to see her before their wedding on this day, and the cloak and veil provided her with the illusion of invisibility. He could imagine her wrestling with the problem until she had come up with this solution. Nothing could have kept her from Polgara's wedding, but all the niceties and formalities had to be observed. Garion smiled slightly as he turned back to the ceremony.
It was the expression on Beldin's face that made him turn again to look sharply toward the back of the chapel - an expression of surprise that turned to calm recognition. At first Garion saw nothing, but then a faint movement up among the rafters caught his eye. The pale, ghostly shape of a snowy owl perched on one of the dark beams, watching as Aunt Pol and Durnik were married.
When the ceremony was concluded and after Durnik had respectfully and rather nervously kissed his bride, the white owl spread her pinions to circle the chapel in ghostly silence. She hovered briefly as if in silent benediction over the happy couple; then with two soft beats of her wings, she moved through the breathless air to Belgarath. The old sorcerer resolutely averted his eyes.
"You may as well look at her, father," Aunt Pol told him. "She won't leave until you recognize her."
Belgarath sighed then, and looked directly at the oddly luminous bird hovering in the air before him. "I still miss you," he said very simply. "Even after all this time."
The owl regarded him with her golden, unblinking eyes for a moment, then flickered and vanished.
"What an absolutely astonishing thing," Queen Layla gasped.
"We're astonishing people, Layla," Aunt Pol replied, "and we have a number of peculiar friends - and relatives." She smiled then, her arm closely linked in Durnik's. "Besides," she added with a twinkle in her eye, "you wouldn't really expect a girl to get married without her mother in attendance, would you?"
Following the wedding, they all walked through the corridors of the Citadel back to the central fortress and stopped outside the door of Aunt Pol's pri
vate apartment. Garion was about to follow Silk and Barak as, after a few brief congratulations, they moved on down the hallway, but Belgarath put his hand on his grandson's arm. "Stay a moment," the old man said.
"I don't think we should intrude, Grandfather," Garion said nervously.
"We'll only stay for a few minutes," Belgarath assured him. The old man's lips were actually quivering with a suppressed mirth. "There's something I want you to see."
One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows raised questioningly as her father and Garion followed into the apartment.
"Are we responding to some ancient and obscure custom, father?" she asked.
"No, Pol," he replied innocently. "Garion and I only want to toast your happiness, that's all."
"What exactly are you up to, Old Wolf?" she asked him, but her eyes had an amused look in them.
"Do I have to be up to something?"
"You usually are, father."
She did, however, fetch four crystal goblets and a decanter of fine old Tolnedran wine.
"The four of us started all this together quite a long time ago," Belgarath recalled. "Perhaps, before we all separate, we should take a moment to remember that we've come a long way since then, and some rather strange things have happened to us. We've all changed in one way or another, I think."
"You haven't changed all that much, father," Aunt Pol said meaningfully. "Would you get to the point?"
Belgarath's eyes were twinkling openly now with some huge, suppressed mirth.
"Durnik has something for you," he said.
Durnik swallowed hard. "Now?" he asked Belgarath apprehensively. Belgarath nodded.
"I know how much you love beautiful things - like that bird over there," Durnik said to Aunt Pol, looking at the crystal wren Garion had given her the previous year. "I wanted to give you something like that, too - only I can't work in glass or in gemstones. I'm a metalsmith, so I have to work in steel." He had been unwrapping something covered in plain cloth. What he produced finally was an intricately wrought steel rose, just beginning to open. The details were exquisite, and the flower glowed with a burnished life of its own.
"Why, Durnik," Aunt Pol said, genuinely pleased. "How very lovely."
Durnik, however, did not give her the rose yet. "It has no color, though," he noted a bit critically, "and no fragrance." He glanced nervously at Belgarath.
"Do it," the old man told him. "The way I showed you."
Durnik turned back to Aunt Pol, still holding the burnished rose in his hand. "I really have nothing to give you, my Pol," he told her humbly, "except an honest heart - and this." He held out the rose in his hand, and his face took on an expression of intense concentration.
Garion heard it very clearly. It was a familiar, rushing surge of whispered sound, filled with a peculiarly bell-like shimmer. The polished rose in Durnik's outstretched hand seemed to pulsate slightly, and then gradually it began to change. The outsides of the petals were as white as new snow, but the insides, where the flower was just opening, were a deep, blushing red. When Durnik finished, he held a living flower out to Aunt Pol, its petals beaded with dew.
Aunt Pol gasped as she stared incredulously at the rose. It was unlike any flower that had ever existed. With a trembling hand she took it from him, her eyes filled with sudden tears. "How is it possible?" she asked in an awed voice.
"Durnik's a very special man now," Belgarath told her. "So far as I know, he's the only man who ever died and then lived again. That could not help changing him - at least a little. But then, I suspect that there's always been a poet lurking under the surface of our good, practical friend. Maybe the only real difference is that now he has a way of letting that poet out."
Durnik, looking just a bit embarrassed, touched the rose with a tentative finger. "It does have one advantage, my Pol," he noted. "The steel is still in it, so it will never fade or wilt. It will stay just as it is now. Even in the middle of winter, you'll have at least one flower."
"Oh, Durnik!" she cried, embracing him.
Durnik looked a bit abashed as he awkwardly returned her embrace. "If you really like it, I could make you some others," he told her. "A whole garden of them, I suppose. It's not really all that hard, once you get the hang of it."
Aunt Pol's eyes, however, had suddenly widened. With one arm still about Durnik, she turned slightly to look at the crystal wren perched upon its glass twig. "Fly," she said, and the glowing bird spread its wings and flew to her outstretched hand. Curiously it inspected the rose, dipped its beak into a dew drop, and then it lifted its head and began to sing a trilling little song. Gently Aunt Pol raised her hand aloft, and the crystal bird soared back to its glass twig. The echo of its song still hung in the silent air.
"I expect it's time for Garion and me to be going," Belgarath said, his face rather sentimental and misty.
Aunt Pol, however, had quite obviously realized something. Her eyes narrowed slightly, then went very wide. "Just a moment, Old Wolf," she said to Belgarath with a faint hint of steel in her voice. "You knew about this from the very beginning, didn't you?"
"About what, Pol?" he asked innocently.
"That Durnik - that I -" For the first time in his life Garion saw her at a loss for words. "You knew!" she flared.
"Naturally. As soon as Durnik woke up, I could feel something different in him. I'm surprised you didn't feel it yourself. I had to work with him a bit to bring it out, though."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't ask, Pol."
"You - I -" With an enormous effort she gained control of herself. "All of these months you let me go on thinking that my power was gone, and it was there all the time! It was still there, and you put me through all of that?"
"Oh, really, Pol. If you'd just stopped to think, you'd have realized that you can't give it up like that. Once it's there, it's there."
"But our Master said-"
Belgarath raised one hand. "If you'll just stop and remember, Pol, all he really asked was if you'd be willing to limit your independence in marriage and go through life with no more power than Durnik has. Since there's no way he could remove your power, he obviously had something else in mind."
"You let me believe-"
"I have no control over what you believe, Pol," he replied in his most reasonable tone of voice.
"You tricked me!"
"No, Pol," he corrected, "you tricked yourself." Then he smiled fondly at her. "Now, before you go off into a tirade, think about it for a moment. All things considered, it didn't really hurt you, did it? And isn't it really nicer to find out about it this way?" His smile became a grin. "You can even consider it my wedding present to you, if you'd like," he added.
She stared at him for a moment, obviously wanting to be cross about the whole thing, but the look he returned her was impish. The confrontation between them had been obscure, but he had quite obviously won this time. Finally, no longer able to maintain even the fiction of anger, she laughed helplessly and put her hand affectionately on his arm. "You're a dreadful old man, father," she told him.
"I know," he admitted. "Coming, Garion?"
Once they were in the hall outside, Belgarath began to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" Garion asked him.
"I've been waiting for that moment for months," his grandfather said, still chortling. "Did you see her face when she finally realized what had happened? She's been moping around with that look of noble self sacrifice for all this time, and then she suddenly finds out that it was absolutely unnecessary." His face took on a wicked little smirk. "Your Aunt's always been just a little too sure of herself, you know. Maybe it was good for her to go for a little while thinking that she was just an ordinary person. It might give her some perspective."
"She was right." Garion laughed. "You are a dreadful old man."
Belgarath grinned. "One does one's best."
They went along the hallway to the royal apartment where the clothes Garion was to wear for his wedding were already laid
out. "Grandfather," Garion said, sitting down to pull off his boots, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Just before Torak died, he called out to his mother."
Belgarath, tankard in hand, nodded.
"Who is his mother?"
"The universe," the old man replied.
"I don't understand."
Belgarath scratched thoughtfully at his short, white beard. "As I understand it, each of the Gods began as an idea in the mind of UL, the father of the Gods, but it was the universe that brought them forth. It's very complicated. I don't understand it entirely myself. Anyway, as he was dying, Torak cried out to the one thing that he felt still loved him. He was wrong, of course. UL and the other Gods did still love him, even though they knew that he had become twisted and totally evil. And the universe grieved for him."
"The universe?"
"Didn't you feel it? That instant when everything stopped and all the lights went out?"
"I thought that was just me."
"No, Garion. For that single instant all the light in the universe went out, and everything stopped moving - everything - everywhere. A part of that was the grief of the universe for her dead son."
Garion thought about that. "He had to die, though, didn't he?"
Belgarath nodded. "It was the only way that things could get back on the right course. Torak had to die so that things could go toward what they're supposed to. Otherwise, everything would have ultimately wound up in chaos."
A sudden strange thought struck Garion.
"Grandfather," he said, "who is Errand?"
"I don't know," Belgarath replied. "Perhaps he's just a strange little boy. Perhaps he's something else. You'd probably better start changing clothes."
"I was trying not to think about that."
"Oh, come now. This is the happiest day of your life."
"Really?"
"It might help if you keep saying that to yourself."
By general consent, the Gorim of Ulgo had been selected to perform the ceremony uniting Garion and Ce'Nedra in marriage. The frail, saintly old man had made the journey from Prolgu in short, easy stages, carried by litter through the caves to Sendaria, then conveyed in King Fulrach's royal carriage to the city of Sendar and thence by ship to Riva. The revelation of the fact that the God of the Ulgos was the father of the other Gods had struck theological circles like a thunderclap. Entire libraries of turgid philosophical speculation had instantly become obsolete, and priests everywhere now stumbled about in a state of shock. Grodeg, the High Priest of Belar, fainted dead away at the news. The towering ecclesiastic, already crippled for life by the wounds he had received during the battle of Thull Mardu, did not take this final blow well. When he recovered from his swoon, his attendants found that his mind had reverted to childhood, and he spent his days now surrounded by toys and brightly colored bits of string.
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