Castle Of Wizardry

by Eddings, David

  Ce’Nedra looked at him sharply. ‘I don’t believe your Majesty understands the significance of the gift,’ she said in that hatefully formal tone she had assumed with him.

  ‘Stop that,’ Garion told her crossly. ‘I still have a name, after all – and I’m almost positive you haven’t forgotten it.’

  ‘If your Majesty insists,’ she replied loftily.

  ‘My Majesty does. What’s so significant about a couple of nuts?’

  She looked at him almost pityingly. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Not if you won’t take the trouble to explain it to me.’

  ‘Very well.’ She sounded irritatingly superior. ‘The one acorn is from my very own tree. The other is from Queen Xantha’s.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘See how impossibly dense he is,’ the princess said to her cousin.

  ‘He’s not a Dryad, Ce’Nedra,’ Xera replied calmly.

  ‘Obviously.’

  Xera turned to Garion. ‘The acorns are not really from my mother,’ she explained. ‘They’re gifts from the trees themselves.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?’ Garion demanded of Ce’Nedra.

  She sniffed and returned to her digging.

  ‘While they’re still just young shoots, Ce’Nedra will bind them together,’ Xera went on. ‘The shoots will intertwine as they grow, embracing each other and forming a single tree. It’s the Dryad symbol for marriage. The two will become one – just as you and Ce’Nedra will.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Ce’Nedra sniffed, trowelling busily in the dirt.

  Garion sighed. ‘I hope the trees are patient.’

  ‘Trees are very patient, Garion,’ Xera replied. She made a little gesture that Ce’Nedra could not see, and Garion followed her to the other end of the garden.

  ‘She does love you, you know,’ Xera told him quietly. ‘She won’t admit it, of course, but she loves you. I know her well enough to see that.’

  ‘Why’s she acting the way she is, then?’

  ‘She doesn’t like being forced into things, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not the one who’s forcing her. Why take it out on me?’

  ‘Whom else can she take it out on?’

  Garion hadn’t thought of that. He left the garden quietly. Xera’s words gave him some hope that one of his problems, at least, might eventually be resolved. Ce’Nedra would pout and storm for a while, and then – after she had made him suffer enough – she would relent. Perhaps it might speed things along if he suffered a bit more obviously.

  The other problems had not changed significantly. He was still going to have to lead an army against Kal Torak; Belgarath had still given no sign that his power was intact; and someone in the Citadel was still, so far as Garion knew, sharpening another knife for him. He sighed and went back to his own rooms where he could worry in private.

  Somewhat later he received word that Aunt Pol wanted to see him in her private apartment. He went immediately and found her seated by the fire, sewing as usual. Belgarath, dressed in his shabby old clothes, sat in one of the deep, comfortable chairs on the other side of the fire with his feet up and a tankard in his hand.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Aunt Pol?’ Garion inquired as he entered.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she replied. ‘Sit down.’ She looked at him somewhat critically. ‘He still doesn’t look much like a king, does he, father?’

  ‘Give him time, Pol,’ the old man told her. ‘He hasn’t been at it for very long.’

  ‘You both knew all along, didn’t you?’ Garion accused them. ‘Who I was, I mean.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Aunt Pol answered in that maddening way of hers.

  ‘Well, if you’d wanted me to behave like a king, you should have told me about it. That way I’d have had some time to get used to the idea.’

  ‘It seems to me we discussed this once before,’ Belgarath mentioned, ‘a long time ago. If you’ll stop and think a bit, I’m sure you’ll be able to see why we had to keep it a secret.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Garion said it a bit doubtfully. ‘All this has happened too fast, though. I hadn’t even got used to being a sorcerer yet, and now I have to be a king, too. It’s all got me off balance.’

  ‘You’re adaptable, Garion,’ Aunt Pol told him, her needle flickering.

  ‘You’d better give him the amulet, Pol,’ Belgarath mentioned. ‘The princess should be here soon.’

  ‘I was just about to, father,’ she replied, laying aside her sewing.

  ‘What’s this?’ Garion asked.

  ‘The princess has a gift for you,’ Aunt Pol said. ‘A ring. It’s a bit ostentatious, but act suitably pleased.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I have something to give her in return?’

  ‘I’ve already taken care of that, dear.’ She took a small velvet box from the table beside her chair. ‘You’ll give her this.’ She handed the box to Garion.

  Inside the box lay a silver amulet, a bit smaller than Garion’s own. Represented on its face in minute and exquisite detail was the likeness of that huge tree which stood in solitary splendor in the center of the Vale of Aldur. There was a crown woven into the branches. Garion held the amulet in his right hand, trying to determine if it had some of the same kind of force about it that he knew was in the one he wore. There was something there, but it didn’t feel at all the same.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be like ours,’ he concluded.

  ‘It isn’t,’ Belgarath replied. ‘Not exactly, anyway. Ce’Nedra’s not a sorceress, so she wouldn’t be able to use one like yours.’

  ‘You said “not exactly.” It does have some kind of power then?’

  ‘It will give her certain insights,’ the old man answered, ‘if she’s patient enough to learn how to use it.’

  ‘Exactly what are we talking about when we use the word “insight”?’

  ‘An ability to see and hear things she wouldn’t otherwise be able to see or hear,’ Belgarath specified.

  ‘Is there anything else I should know about it before she gets here?’

  ‘Just tell her that it’s a family heirloom,’ Aunt Pol suggested. ‘It belonged to my sister, Beldaran.’

  ‘You should keep it, Aunt Pol,’ Garion objected. ‘I can get something else for the princess.’

  ‘No, dear. Beldaran wants her to have it.’

  Garion found Aunt Pol’s habit of speaking of people long dead in the present tense a trifle disconcerting, so he didn’t pursue the matter.

  There was a light tap on the door.

  ‘Come in, Ce’Nedra,’ Aunt Pol answered.

  The little princess was wearing a rather plain green gown open at the throat, and her expression was somewhat subdued. ‘Come over by the fire,’ Aunt Pol told her. ‘The evenings are still a bit chilly this time of year.’

  ‘Is it always this cold and damp in Riva?’ Ce’Nedra asked, coming to the fire.

  ‘We’re a long ways north of Tol Honeth,’ Garion pointed out.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ she said with that little edge in her voice.

  ‘I always thought it was customary to wait until after the wedding to start bickering,’ Belgarath observed slyly. ‘Have the rules changed?’

  ‘Just practicing, Belgarath,’ Ce’Nedra replied impishly. ‘Just practicing for later on.’

  The old man laughed. ‘You can be a charming little girl when you put your mind to it,’ he said.

  Ce’Nedra bowed mockingly. Then she turned to Garion. ‘It’s customary for a Tolnedran girl to give her betrothed a gift of a certain value,’ she informed him. She held up a heavy, ornate ring set with several glowing stones. ‘This ring belonged to Ran Horb II, the greatest of all Tolnedran Emperors. Wearing it might help you to be a better king.’

  Garion sighed. It was going to be one of those meetings. ‘I’ll be honored to wear the ring,’ he replied as inoffensively as possible, ‘and I’d like for you to wear this.’ He handed her the velvet box. ‘It belonged to the wif
e of Riva Iron-grip, Aunt Pol’s sister.’

  Ce’Nedra took the box and opened it. ‘Why, Garion,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s lovely.’ She held the amulet in her hand turning it to catch the firelight. ‘The tree looks so real that you can almost smell the leaves.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Belgarath replied modestly.

  ‘You made it?’ The princess sounded startled.

  The old man nodded. ‘When Polgara and Beldaran were children, we lived in the Vale. There weren’t very many silversmiths there, so I had to make their amulets myself. Aldur helped me with some of the finer details.’

  ‘This is a priceless gift, Garion.’ The tiny girl actually glowed, and Garion began to have some hope for the future. ‘Help me with it,’ she commanded, handing him the two ends of the chain and turning with one hand holding aside the mass of her deep red hair.

  ‘Do you accept the gift, Ce’Nedra?’ Aunt Pol asked her, giving the question a peculiar emphasis.

  ‘Of course I do,’ the princess replied.

  ‘Without reservation and of your own free will?’ Aunt Pol pressed, her eyes intent.

  ‘I accept the gift, Lady Polgara,’ Ce’Nedra replied. ‘Fasten it for me, Garion. Be sure it’s secure. I wouldn’t want it to come undone.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll need to worry too much about that,’ Belgarath told her.

  Garion’s fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the curious clasp. His fingertips tingled peculiarly as the two ends locked together with a faintly audible click.

  ‘Hold the amulet in your hand, Garion,’ Aunt Pol instructed him. Ce’Nedra lifted her chin and Garion took the medallion in his right hand. Then Aunt Pol and Belgarath closed their hands over his. Something peculiar seemed to pass through their hands and into the talisman at Ce’Nedra’s throat.

  ‘Now you are sealed to us, Ce’Nedra,’ Aunt Pol told the princess quietly, ‘with a tie that can never be broken.’

  Ce’Nedra looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then her eyes slowly widened and a dreadful suspicion began to grow in them. ‘Take it off,’ she told Garion sharply.

  ‘He can’t do that,’ Belgarath informed her, sitting back down and picking up his tankard again.

  Ce’Nedra was tugging at the chain, pulling with both hands.

  ‘You’ll just scratch your neck, dear,’ Aunt Pol warned gently. ‘The chain won’t break; it can’t be cut; and it won’t come off over your head. You’ll never have to worry about losing it.’

  ‘You did this,’ the princess stormed at Garion.

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Put this slave chain on me. It wasn’t enough that I had to bow to you; now you’ve put me in chains as well.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he protested.

  ‘Liar!’ she screamed at him. Then she turned and fled the room, sobbing bitterly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Garion was in a sour mood. The prospect of another day of ceremony and tedious conferences was totally unbearable, and he had risen early to escape from the royal bedchamber before the insufferably polite appointment secretary with his endless lists could arrive to nail down the entire day. Garion privately detested the inoffensive fellow, even though he knew the man was only doing his job. A king’s time had to be organized and scheduled, and it was the appointment secretary’s task to take care of that. And so, each morning after breakfast, there came that respectful tapping at the door, and the appointment secretary would enter, bow, and then proceed to arrange the young king’s day, minute by minute. Garion was morbidly convinced that somewhere, probably hidden away and closely guarded, was the ultimate master list that laid out the schedule for the rest of his life – including his royal funeral.

  But this day dawned too gloriously for thoughts of stuffy formality and heavy conference. The sun had come boiling up out of the Sea of the Winds, touching the snowfields atop the craggy peaks with a blushing pink, and the morning shadows in the deep valleys above the city were a misty blue. The smell of spring pushed urgently in from the little garden outside his window, and Garion knew he must escape, if only for an hour or so. He dressed quickly in tunic, hose, and soft Rivan boots, rather carefully selecting clothes as unroyal as his wardrobe offered. Pausing only long enough to belt on his sword, he crept out of the royal apartment. He even considered not taking along his guards, but prudently decided against that.

  They were at a standstill in the search for the man who had tried to kill him in that dim hallway, but both Lelldorin and Garion had discovered that the outer garments of any number of Rivans needed repair. The grey cloak was not a ceremonial garment, but rather was something thrown on for warmth. It was a sturdy, utilitarian covering, and quite a number of such robes had been allowed to fall into a condition of shocking disrepair. Moreover, now that spring was here, men would soon stop wearing them, and the only clue to the attacker’s identity would be locked away in a closet somewhere.

  Garion brooded about that as he wandered moodily through the silent corridors of the Citadel with two mailed guards following at a respectful distance. The attempt, he reasoned, had not come from a Grolim. Aunt Pol’s peculiar ability to recognize the mind of a Grolim would have alerted her instantly. In all probability the attacker had not been a foreigner of any kind. There were too few foreigners on the island to make that very likely. It had to be a Rivan, but why would a Rivan want to kill the king who had just returned after thirteen hundred years?

  He sighed with perplexity over the problem and let his mind drift off to other matters. He wished that he were only Garion again; he wished that more than anything. He wished that it might be possible for him to awaken in some out-of-the-way inn somewhere and start out in the silver light of daybreak to ride alone to the top of the next hill to see what lay beyond. He sighed again. He was a public person now, and such freedom was denied him. He was coldly certain that he was never going to have a moment to himself again.

  As he passed an open doorway, he suddenly heard a familiar voice. ‘Sin creeps into our minds the moment we let our thoughts stray,’ Relg was saying. Garion stopped, motioning his guards to silence.

  ‘Must everything be a sin?’ Taiba asked. Inevitably they were together. They had been together almost continually from the moment Relg had rescued Taiba from her living entombment in the cave beneath Rak Cthol. Garion was almost certain that neither of them was actually conscious of that fact. Moreover, he had seen evidence of discomfort, not only on Taiba’s face, but on Relg’s as well, whenever they were apart. Something beyond the control of either of them drew them together.

  ‘The world is filled with sin,’ Relg declared. ‘We must guard against it constantly. We must stand jealous guard over our purity against all forms of temptation.’

  ‘That would be very tiresome.’ Taiba sounded faintly amused.

  ‘I thought you wanted instruction,’ Relg accused her. ‘If you just came here to mock me, I’ll leave right now.’

  ‘Oh, sit down, Relg,’ she told him. ‘We’ll never get anywhere with this if you take offense at everything I say.’

  ‘Have you no idea at all about the meaning of religion?’ he asked after a moment. He actually sounded curious about it.

  ‘In the slave pens, the word religion meant death. It meant having your heart cut out.’

  ‘That was a Grolim perversion. Didn’t you have a religion of your own?’

  ‘The slaves came from all over the world, and they prayed to many Gods – usually for death.’

  ‘What about your own people? Who is your God?’

  ‘I was told that his name is Mara. We don’t pray to him though – not since he abandoned us.’

  ‘It’s not man’s place to accuse the Gods,’ Relg told her sternly. ‘Man’s duty is to glorify his God and pray to him – even if the prayers aren’t answered.’

  ‘And what about the God’s duty to man?’ she asked pointedly. ‘Can a God not be negligent as well as a man? Wouldn’t you consider a God negligent if he allowed his chil
dren to be enslaved and butchered – or if he allowed his daughters to be given as a reward to other slaves when they pleased their masters – as I was?’

  Relg struggled with that painful question.

  ‘I think you’ve led a very sheltered life, Relg,’ she told the zealot. ‘I think you have a very limited idea of human suffering – of the kinds of things men can do to other men – and women – apparently with the full permission of the Gods.’

  ‘You should have killed yourself,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To avoid corruption, naturally.’

  ‘You are an innocent, aren’t you? I didn’t kill myself because I wasn’t ready to die. Even in the slave pens, life can be sweet, Relg, and death is bitter. What you call corruption is only a small thing – and not even always unpleasant.’

  ‘Sinful woman!’ he gasped.

  ‘You worry too much about that, Relg,’ she advised him. ‘Cruelty is a sin; lack of compassion is a sin. But that other little thing? I hardly think so. I begin to wonder about you. Could it be that this UL of yours is not quite so stern and unforgiving as you seem to believe? Does he really want all these prayers and rituals and grovelings? Or are they your way to hide from your God? Do you think that praying in a loud voice and pounding your head on the ground will keep him from seeing into your heart?’

  Relg was making strangled noises.

  ‘If our Gods really loved us, they’d want our lives filled with joy,’ she continued relentlessly. ‘But you hate joy for some reason – probably because you’re afraid of it. Joy is not sin, Relg; joy is a kind of love, and I think the Gods approve of it – even if you don’t.’

  ‘You’re hopelessly depraved.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ she admitted casually, ‘but at least I look life right in the face. I’m not afraid of it, and I don’t try to hide from it.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he demanded of her in an almost tragic voice. ‘Why must you forever follow me and mock me with your eyes?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she replied, sounding almost puzzled. ‘You’re not really that attractive. Since we left Rak Cthol, I’ve seen dozens of men who interested me much more. At first it was because I knew that I made you nervous and because you were afraid of me. I rather enjoyed that, but lately there’s more to it than that. It doesn’t make any sense, of course. You’re what you are, and I’m what I am, but for some reason I want to be with you.’ She paused. ‘Tell me, Relg – and don’t try to lie about it – would you really want me to go away and never see you again?’