"That might not be a bad idea, Garion," Polgara told him.
He got to his feet, and Errand could feel his trembling nervousness. With an almost agonizing casualness he turned to Ce'Nedra. "Coming, dear?" he asked, putting an entire peace proposal into those two words.
Ce'Nedra looked at him, and her heart was in her eyes.
"Why -uh- yes, Garion," she said with a rosy little blush, "I believe I will. I seem to be very tired, too."
"Good night, children," Polgara said to them in tones of warm affection. "Sleep well."
"What did you say to them?" Belgarath asked his daughter when the royal couple had left the room hand in hand.
"A great many things, father," she replied smugly.
"One of them must have done the trick," he said. "Durnik, be a good fellow and top this off for me." He passed his empty tankard to Durnik, who sat beside the ale barrel. Polgara was so pleased with her success that she did not even comment on that.
It was well after midnight when Errand awoke with a slight start.
"You' re a very sound sleeper," a voice that seemed to be inside his mind said to him.
"I was dreaming," Errand replied.
"I noticed that," the voice said drily. "Pull on some clothes. I need you in the throne room."
Errand obediently got out of bed and pulled on his tunic and his short, soft Sendarian boots.
"Be quiet," the voice told him. "Let's not wake up Polgara and Durnik."
Quietly they left the apartment and went down the long, deserted corridors to the Hall of the Rivan King, the vast throne room where, three years before, Errand had placed the Orb of Aldur in Garion's hand and had forever changed the young man's life.
The huge door creaked slightly as Errand pulled it open, and he heard a voice inside call out, "Who's there?"
"It's only me, Belgarion," Errand told him.
The great Hall was illuminated by the soft blue radiance of the Orb of Aldur, standing on the pommel of the huge sword of Riva, hanging point downward above the throne.
"What are you doing wandering around so late, Errand?" Garion asked him. The Rivan King was sprawled on his throne with his leg cocked up over one of the arms.
"I was told to come here," Errand replied.
Garion looked at him strangely. "Told? Who told you?"
"You know." Errand said, stepping inside the Hall and closing the door. "Him."
Garion blinked. "Does he talk to you, too?"
"This is the first time. I've known about him, though."
"If he's never-" Garion broke off and looked sharply up at the Orb, his eyes startled. The soft blue light of the stone had suddenly changed to a deep, angry red. Errand could very clearly hear a strange sound. For all of the time he had carried the Orb, his ears had been filled with the crystalline shimmer of its song, but now that shimmer seemed to have taken on an ugly iron overtone, as if the stone had encountered something or someone that filled it with a raging anger.
"Beware!" that voice which they both heard quite clearly said to them in tones which could not be ignored. "Beware Zandramas!"
CHAPTER FIVE
As soon as it was daylight, the two of them went in search of Belgarath. Errand could sense that Garion was troubled and he himself felt that the warning they had received concerned a matter of such importance that everything else must be set aside in the face of it. They had not really spoken much about it during those dark, silent hours while they sat together in the Hall of the Rivan King, waiting for the first light to touch the eastern horizon. Instead, they had both watched the Orb of Aldur closely, but the stone, after that one strange moment of crimson anger, had returned to its customary azure glow.
They found Belgarath seated before a recently rekindled fire in a low-beamed hall close to the royal kitchens. On the table not far from where he sat lay a large chunk of bread and a generous slab of cheese. Errand looked at the bread and cheese, realizing suddenly that he was hungry and wondering if Belgarath might be willing to share some of his breakfast. The old sorcerer seemed lost in thought as he gazed into the dancing flames, and his stout gray cloak was drawn about his shoulders, though the hall was not cold.
"You two are up early." he noted as Garion and Errand entered and came to join him by the fireside.
"So are you, Grandfather," Garion said.
"I had a peculiar dream," the old man replied. "I've been trying to shake it off for several hours now. For some reason I dreamed that the Orb had turned red."
"It did," Errand told him quietly.
Belgarath looked at him sharply.
"Yes. We both saw it, Grandfather," Garion said. "We were in the throne room a few hours ago, and the Orb suddenly turned red. Then that voice that I've got in here-" He tapped his forehead. "-said to beware of Zandramas."
"Zandramas?" Belgarath said with a puzzled look. "Is that a name or a thing or what?"
"I don't really know, Grandfather," Garion replied, "but both Errand and I heard it, didn't we, Errand?" Errand nodded, his eyes still on the bread and cheese.
"What were the two of you doing in the throne room at that hour?" Belgarath asked, his eyes very intent.
"I was asleep," Garion answered. Then his face flushed slightly. "Well, sort of asleep. Ce'Nedra and I talked until quite late. We haven't talked very much lately, and so we had a lot of things to say to each other. Anyway, he told me to get up and go to the throne room."
Belgarath looked at Errand. " And you?"
"He woke me up," Errand replied, "and he-"
"Hold it," Belgarath said sharply. "Who woke you up?"
"The same one who woke Garion."
"You know who he is?"
"Yes."
"And you know what he is?"
Errand nodded.
"Has he ever spoken to you before?"
"No."
"But you knew immediately who and what he is?"
"Yes. He told me that he needed me in the throne room, so I got dressed and went. When I got there, the Orb turned red, and the voice said to beware of Zandramas."
Belgarath was frowning. "You're both absolutely positive that the Orb changed color?"
"Yes, Grandfather," Garion assured him, "and it sounded different, too. It usually makes this kind of ringing noise -like the sound a bell makes after you strike it. This was altogether different."
" And you're sure that it turned red? I mean it wasn't just a darker shade of blue or something?"
"No, Grandfather. It was definitely red."
Belgarath got up out of his chair, his face suddenly grim. "Come with me," he said shortly and started toward the door.
"Where are we going?" Garion asked.
"To the library. I need to check on something."
"On what?"
"Let's wait until I read it. This is important, and I want to be sure that I've got it right."
As he passed the table, Errand picked up the piece of cheese and broke off part of it. He took a large bite as he followed Belgarath and Garion from the room. They went quickly through the dim, torchlit corridors and up a steep, echoing flight of narrow stone steps. In the past few years Belgarath's expression had become rather whimsical and touched with a sort of lazy self-indulgence. All trace of that was gone now, and his eyes were intent and very alert. When they reached the library, the old man took a pair of candles from a dusty table and lighted them from the torch hanging in an iron ring just outside the door. Then he came back inside and set one of the candles down. "Close the door, Garion," he said, still holding the other candle. "We don't want to be disturbed."
Wordlessly, Garion shut the solid oak door. Belgarath went over to the wall lifted his candle and began to run his eyes over the row upon row of dusty, leather-bound books and the neatly stacked, silk-wrapped scrolls. "There," he said, pointing to the top shelf. "Reach that scroll down for me, Garion -the one wrapped in blue silk."
Garion stretched up on his tiptoes and took down the scroll. He looked at it curiously before
handing it to his grandfather. "Are you sure?" he asked. "This isn't the Mrin Codex, you know."
"No," Belgarath told him. "It isn't. Don't get your attention so locked onto the Mrin Codex that you ignore all the others." He set down his candle and carefully untied the silver tasseled cord binding the scroll. He stripped off the blue silk cover and began to unroll the crackling parchment, his eyes running quickly over the ancient script. "Here it is," he said at last. "'Behold,' '' he read, " 'in the day that Aldur's Orb burns hot with crimson fire shall the name of the Child of Dark be revealed.' "
"But Torak was the Child of Dark," Garion protested. "What is that scroll?"
"The Darine Codex," Belgarath told him. "It's not always as reliable as the Mrin, but it's the only one that mentions this particular event."
"What does it mean?" Garion asked him, looking perplexed.
"It's a bit complicated," Belgarath replied, his lips pursed and his eyes still fixed on the passage in question. "Rather simply put, there are two prophecies."
"Yes, I knew that, but I thought that when Torak died, the other one just -well-"
"Not exactly. I don't think it's that simple. The two have been meeting in these confrontations since before the beginning of this world. Each time, there's a Child of Light and a Child of Dark. When you and Torak met at Cthol Mishrak, you were the Child of Light and Torak was the Child of Dark. It wasn't the first time the two had met. Apparently it was not to be the last, either."
"You mean that it's not over yet?" Garion demanded incredulously.
"Not according to this," Belgarath said, tapping the parchment.
"All right, if this Zandramas is the Child of Dark, who's the Child of Light?"
"As far as I know, you are."
"Me? Still?"
"Until we hear something to the contrary."
"Why me?"
"Haven't we had this conversation before?" Belgarath asked drily.
Garion's shoulders slumped. "Now I've got this to worry about again -on top of everything else."
"Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Garion," Belgarath told him bluntly. "We're all doing what we have to do, and sniveling about it won't change a thing."
"I wasn't sniveling." .
"Whatever you call it, stop it and get to work."
"What am I supposed to do?" Garion's tone was just a trifle sullen.
"You can start here," the old man said, waving one hand to indicate all the dusty books and silk-wrapped scrolls. "This is perhaps one of the world's best collections of prophecy -western prophecy at least. It doesn't include the Oracles of the Mallorean Grolims, of course, or the collection that Ctuchik had at Rak Cthol or the secret books of those people at Kell, but it's a place to start. I want you to read your way through this -all of it- and see if you can find out anything at all about this Zandramas. Make a note of every reference to 'the Child of Dark.' Most of them will probably have to do with Torak, but there might be some that mean Zandramas instead." He frowned slightly. "While you're at it, keep an eye out for anything that has to do with something called 'the Sardion' or 'Cthrag Sardius."
"What's that?"
"I don't know. Beldin ran across the term in Mallorea. It might be important -or it might not."
Garion looked around the library, his face blanching slightly. "Are you telling me that this is all prophecy?"
"Of course not. A lot of it -most of it probably- is the collected ravings of assorted madmen, all faithfully written down."
"Why would anybody want to write down what crazy people say?"
"Because the Mrin Codex is precisely that, the ravings of a lunatic. The Mrin prophet was so crazy that he had to be chained up. A lot of very conscientious people went out after he died and wrote down the gibberish of every madman they could find on the off chance that there might be prophecy hidden in it somewhere."
"How do I tell the difference?"
"I'm not really sure. Maybe after you've read them all, you'll be able to come up with a way to separate them. If you do, let us know. It could save us all a lot of time."
Garion looked around the library in dismay. "But, Grandfather," he protested, "this could take years!"
"You'd probably better get started then, hadn't you? Try to concentrate on things that are supposed to happen after the death of Torak. We're all fairly familiar with the things that led up to that."
"Grandfather, I'm not really a scholar. What if I miss something?"
"Don't," Belgarath told him firmly. "Like it or not, Garion, you're one of us. You have the same responsibilities that the rest of us do. You might as well get used to the idea that the whole world depends on you -and you also might just as well forget that you ever heard the words, 'why me?' That's the objection of a child, and you're a man now." Then the old man turned and looked very hard at Errand. "And what are you doing mixed up in all of this?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Errand replied calmly. "We'll probably have to wait and see, won't we?"
That afternoon Errand was alone with Polgara in the warm comfort of her sitting room. She sat by the fire with her favorite blue robe about her and her feet on a carpeted footstool. She held an embroidery hoop in her hands and she was humming softly as her needle flashed in the golden firelight. Errand sat in the leather-covered armchair opposite hers, nibbling on an apple and watching her as she sewed.
One of the things he loved about her was her ability to radiate a kind of calm contentment when she was engaged in simple domestic tasks. At such quiet times her very presence was soothing.
The pretty Rivan girl who served as Polgara's maid tapped softly and entered the room. "Lady Polgara," she said with a little curtsy, "My Lord Brand asks if he might have a word with you."
"Of course, dear," Polgara replied, laying aside her embroidery. "Show him in, please." Errand had noticed that Polgara tended to call all young people "dear," most of the time without even being aware that she was doing it.
The maid escorted the tall, gray-haired Rivan Warder into the room, curtsied again, and then quietly withdrew.
"Polgara," Brand greeted her in his deep voice. He was a large, bulky man with a deeply lined face and tired, sad eyes and he was the last Rivan Warder. During the centuries-long interregnum following the death of King Gorek at the hands of Queen Salmissra's assassins, the Isle of the Winds and the Rivan people had been ruled by a line of men chosen for their ability and their absolute devotion to duty. So selfless had been that devotion that each Rivan Warder had submerged his own personality and had taken the name Brand.
Now that Garion had come at last to claim his throne, there was no further need for that centuries-old stewardship. So long as he lived, however, this big, sad-eyed man would be absolutely committed to the royal line -not perhaps so much to Garion himself, but rather to the concept of the line and to its perpetuation. It was with that thought uppermost in his mind that he came that quiet afternoon to thank Polgara for taking the estrangement of Garion and his queen in hand.
"How did they manage to grow so far apart?" she asked him. "When they married, they were so close that you couldn't pry them away from each other."
"It all started about a year ago," Brand replied in his rumbling voice. "There are two powerful families on the northern end of the island. They had always been friendly, but a dispute arose over a property arrangement that was involved in a wedding between a young man from one family and a girl from the other. People from one family came to the Citadel and presented their cause to Ce'Nedra, and she issued a royal decree supporting them."
"But she neglected to consult Garion about it?" Polgara surmised.
Brand nodded. "When he found out, he was furious. There's no question that Ce'Nedra had overstepped her authority, but Garion revoked her decree in public."
"Oh, dear," Polgara said. "So that's what all the bitterness was about. I couldn't really get a straight answer out of either of them."
"They were probably a little too ashamed to admit it," Brand said. "Each one
had humiliated the other in public, and neither one was mature enough just to forgive and let it slide. They kept wrangling at each other until the whole affair got completely out of hand. There were times when I wanted to shake them both -or maybe spank them."
"That's an interesting idea." She laughed. "Why didn't you write and tell me they were having problems?"
"Belgarion told me not to," he replied helplessly.
"Sometimes we have to disobey that kind of order."
"I'm sorry, Polgara, but I can't do that."
"No, I suppose you couldn't."
She turned to look at Errand, who was closely examining an exquisite piece of blown glass, a crystal wren perched on a budding twig. "Please don't touch it, Errand," she cautioned. "It's fragile and very precious."
"Yes," he agreed, "I know." And to reassure her, he clasped his hands firmly behind his back.
"Well." She turned back to Brand. "I hope the foolishness is all past now. I think we've restored peace to the royal house of Riva."
"I certainly hope so," Brand said with a tired smile. "I would definitely like to see an occupant in the royal nursery."
"That might take a bit longer."
"It's getting sort of important, Polgara," he said seriously. "We're all a bit nervous about the lack of an heir to the throne. It's not only me. Anheg and Rhodar and Cho-Hag have all written to me about it. All of Aloria is holding its breath waiting for Ce'Nedra to start having children."
"She's only nineteen, Brand."
"Most Alorn girls have had at least two babies by the time they're nineteen."
"Ce'Nedra isn't an Alorn. She's not even entirely Tolnedran. Her heritage is Dryad, and there are some peculiarities about Dryads and the way they mature."
"That's going to be a little hard to explain to other Alorns," Brand replied. "There has to be an heir to the Rivan throne. The line must continue."
"Give them a little time, Brand," Polgara said placidly. "They'll get around to it. The important thing was to get them back into the same bedroom."
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