Belgarath grinned at him and winked.
"I will speak with my mistress, your Majesty," Andel said, "and entreat her to send her semblance here. Should she consent, I beg of you to ask your questions quickly. The effort of reaching half around the world exhausts her, and she is not robust." Then the Dalasian woman knelt reverently and lowered her head, and Garion once again heard that peculiar murmur as of many voices, followed by a long moment of silence. Again there was that same shimmer in the air; when it had cleared, the hooded and blindfolded form of Cyradis stood there.
"We thank you for coming, Holy Seeress," Zakath said to her in an oddly respectful tone of voice." My guests here have told me certain things that I am loath to believe, but I have agreed to accept whatever you can confirm."
"I will tell thee what I can, Zakath," she replied. "Some things are hidden from me, and some others may not yet be revealed."
"I understand the limitations, Cyradis. Belgarion tells me that Urgit, the King of the Murgos, is not of the blood of Taur Urgas. Is this true?"
"It is," she replied simply. "King Urgit's father was an Alorn."
"Are any of the sons of Taur Urgas still alive?"
"Nay, Zakath. The line of Taur Urgas became extinct some twelve years ago when his last son was strangled in a cellar in Rak Goska upon the command of Oskatat, King Urgit's Seneschal."
Zakath sighed and shook his head sadly. "And so it has ended," he said. "My enemy's line passed unnoticed from this world in a dark cellar ‑passed so quietly that I could not even rejoice that they were gone, nor curse the ones who stole them from my grasp."
"Revenge is a hollow thing, Zakath."
"It's the only thing I've had for almost thirty years now." He sighed again, then straightened his shoulders. "Did Zandramas really steal Belgarion's son?"
"She did, and now she carries him to the Place Which Is No More."
"And where's that?"
Her face grew very still. "I may not reveal that," she replied finally, "but the Sardion is there."
"Can you tell me what the Sardion is?"
"It is one half of the stone which was divided."
"Is it really all that important?"
"In all of Angarak there is no thing of greater worth. The Grolims all know this. Urvon would give all his wealth for it. Zandramas would abandon the adoration of multitudes for it. Mengha would give his soul for it -indeed, he hath done so already in his enlistment of demons to aid him. Even Agachak, Hierarch of Rak Urga, would abandon his ascendancy in Cthol Murgos to possess it."
"How is it that a thing of such value has escaped my notice?"
"Thine eyes are on worldly matters, Zakath. The Sardion is not of this world ‑no more than the other half of the divided stone is of this world."
"The other half?"
" That which the Angaraks call Cthrag Yaska and the men of the West call the Orb of Aldur. Cthrag Sardius and Cthrag Yaska were sundered in the moment which saw the birth of the opposing necessities."
Zakath's face had grown quite pale, and he clasped his hands tightly in front of him to control their trembling.
"It's all true, then?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"All, Kal Zakath. All."
"Even that Belgarion and Zandramas are the Child of Light and the Child of Dark?"
"Yes, they are."
He started to ask her another question, but she raised her hand. "My time is short, Zakath, and I must now reveal something of greater import unto thee, Know that thy life doth approach a momentous crossroads. Put aside thy lust for power and thy hunger for revenge, as they are but childish toys. Return thou even to Mal Zeth to prepare thyself for thy part in the meeting which is to come."
"My part?" He sounded startled.
"Thy name and thy task are written in the stars."
"And what is this task?"
"I will instruct thee when thou art ready to understand what it is that thou must do. First thou must cleanse thy heart of that grief and remorse which hath haunted thee."
His face grew still, and he sighed. "I'm afraid not, Cyradis," he said. "What you ask is quite impossible."
"Then thou wilt surely die before the seasons turn again. Consider what I have told thee, and consider it well, Emperor of Mallorea. I will speak with thee anon." And then she shimmered and vanished.
Zakath stared at the empty spot where she had stood.
His face was pale, and his jaws were set.
"Well, Zakath?" Belgarath said. "Are you convinced?"
The Emperor rose from his chair and began to pace up and down. "This is an absolute absurdity!" he burst out suddenly in an agitated voice.
"I know," Belgarath replied calmly, "but a willingness to believe the absurd is an indication of faith. It might just be that faith is the first step in the preparation Cyradis mentioned."
"It's not that I don't want to believe, Belgarath," Zakath said, in a strangely humble tone. "It's just‑"
"Nobody said that it was going to be easy," the old man told him. " But you've done things before that weren't easy, haven't you?"
Zakath dropped into his chair again, his eyes lost in thought. "Why me?" he said plaintively. "Why do I have to get involved in this?"
Garion suddenly laughed.
Zakath gave him a cold stare.
"Sorry," Garion apologized, "but I've been saying 'why me?' since I was about fourteen. Nobody's ever given me a satisfactory answer, but you get used to the injustice of it after a while."
"It's not that I'm trying to avoid any kind of responsibility, Belgarion. It's just that I can't see what possible help I could be. You people are going to track down Zandramas, retrieve your son, and destroy the Sardion. Isn't that about it?"
"It's a little more complicated than that," Belgarath told him. "Destroying the Sardion is going to involve something rather cataclysmic."
"I don't quite follow that. Can't you just wave your hand and make it cease to exist? You are a sorcerer, after all ‑or so they say."
"That's forbidden," Garion said automatically. "You can't unmake things. That's what Ctuchik tried to do, and he destroyed himself."
Zakath frowned and looked at Belgarath. "I thought you killed him."
"Most people do." The old man shrugged. "It adds to my reputation, so I don't argue with them." He tugged at one earlobe. "No," he said, "I think we're going to have to see this all the way through to the end. I'm fairly sure that the only way the Sardion can be destroyed is as a result of the final confrontation between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark." He paused, then sat up suddenly, his face intent. "I think Cyradis slipped and gave us something she hadn't intended, though. She said that the Grolim priesthood all desperately wanted the Sardion, and she included Mengha in her list. Wouldn't that seem to indicate that Mengha's also a Grolim?" He looked at Andel. " Is your young mistress subject to these little lapses?"
"Cyradis cannot misspeak herself, Holy Belgarath," the healer replied." A Seeress does not speak in her own voice, but in the voice of her vision."
" Then she wanted us to know that Mengha is ‑or was- a Grolim, and that the reason he's raising demons is to help him in his search for the Sardion." He thought about it. "There's another rather bleak possibility, too," he added. "It might just be that his demons are using him to get the Sardion for themselves. Maybe that's why they're so docile where he's concerned. Demons by themselves are bad enough, but if the Sardion has the same power as the Orb, we definitely don't want it to fall into their hands." He turned to Zakath. "Well?" he said.
"Well what?"
"Are you with us or against us?"
"Isn't that a little blunt?"
"Yes, it is ‑but it saves time, and time's starting to be a factor."
Zakath sank lower in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I find very little benefit for me in this proposed arrangement," he said.
"You get to keep living," Garion reminded him. "Cyradis said that you'll die before spring if you don't take up the task
she's going to lay in front of you."
Zakath's faint smile was melancholy, and the dead indifference returned to his eyes. "My life hasn't really been so enjoyable that I'd consider going out of my way to prolong it, Belgarion," he replied.
"Don't you think you're being just a little childish, Zakath?" Garion snapped, his temper starting to heat up again. "You're not accomplishing a single thing here in Cthol Murgos. There's not one solitary drop of Urga blood left for you to spill, and you've got a situation at home that verges on disaster. Are you a King ‑or an Emperor, or whatever you want to call it‑ or are you a spoiled child? You refuse to go back to Mal Zeth just because somebody told you that you ought to. You even dig in your heels when someone assures you that you'll die if you don't go back. That's not only childish, it's irrational, and I don't have the time to try to reason with somebody whose wits have deserted him. Well, you can huddle here in Rak Hagga and nurse all your tired old griefs and disappointments until Cyradis' predictions catch up with you, for all I care, but Geran is my son, and I'm going to Mallorea. I've got work to do, and I don't have time to coddle you." He had saved something up for last. "Besides," he added in an insulting, offhand tone, "I don't need you anyway."
Zakath came to his feet, his eyes ablaze. "You go too far!" he roared, slamming his fist down on the table.
"Amazing," Garion said sarcastically. "You are alive after all. I thought I might have to step on your foot to get any kind of response of you. All right, now that you're awake, let's fight."
"What do you mean, fight?" Zakath demanded, his face still flushed with anger. "Fight about what?"
"About whether or not you're going with us to Mallorea."
"Don't be stupid. Of course I'm going with you. What we are going to fight about is your incredible lack of common courtesy."
Garion stared at him for a moment and then suddenly doubled over in a gale of helpless laughter.
Zakath's face was still red, and his fists were clenching and unclenching. Then a slightly sheepish expression came over his face, and he, too, began to laugh.
Belgarath let out an explosive breath. "Garion," he said irritably, "let me know when you're going to do something like that. My veins aren't what they used to be."
Zakath wiped at his eyes, though he was still laughing. "How long do you think it might take for you and your friends to get packed?" he asked them.
"Not too long," Garion replied. "Why?"
"I'm suddenly homesick for Mal Zeth. It's spring there now, and the cherry trees are in bloom. You and Ce'Nedra will love Mal Zeth, Garion."
Garion was not entirely sure if the omission of the "Bel" was inadvertent or an overture of friendship. He was, however, quite sure that the Emperor of Mallorea was a man of even greater complexity than he had imagined.
"I hope you'll all excuse me now," Zakath said, "but I want to talk with Brador and get a few more details about what's been going on in Karanda. This Mengha he told me about seems to be mounting an open insurrection against the crown, and I've always had a violent prejudice against that sort of thing."
"I can relate to that," Garion agreed blandly.
For the next few days the road between Rak Hagga and the port city of Rak Cthan was thick with imperial messengers. Finally, on a frosty morning when the sun was bright and the sky dark blue and when misty steam rose from the dark waters of Lake Hagga, they set out, riding across a winter‑browned plain toward the coast. Garion, his gray Rivan cloak drawn about him, rode at the head of the column with Zakath, who seemed for some reason to be in better spirits than he had been at any time since the two had met. The column which followed them stretched back for miles.
"Vulgar, isn't it?" the Mallorean said wryly, looking back over his shoulder. "I'm absolutely surrounded by parasites and toadies, and they proliferate like maggots in rotten meat."
"If they bother you so much, then why not dismiss them?" Garion suggested.
"I can't. They all have powerful relatives. I have to balance them very carefully ‑one from this tribe to match the one from that clan. As long as no one family has too many high offices, they spend all their time plotting against each other. That way they don't have the time to plot against me."
"I suppose that's one way to keep things under control."
As the sun moved up through the bright blue winter sky at this nether end of the world, the frost gently dissolved from the long stems of dead grass or fell lightly from the fern and bracken to leave ghostly white imprints of those drooping brown fronds on the short green moss spread beneath.
They paused for a noon meal that was every bit as sumptuous as one that might have been prepared back in Rak Hagga and was served on snowy damask beneath a wide‑spread canvas roof. "Adequate, I suppose," Zakath said critically after they had eaten.
"You're overpampered, my lord," Polgara told him. "A hard ride in wet weather and a day or so on short rations would probably do wonders for your appetite."
Zakath gave Garion an amused look. "I thought it was just you," he said, "but this blunt outspokenness seems to be a characteristic of your whole family ".
Garion shrugged. "It saves time."
"Forgive my saying this, Belgarion," Sadi interjected, "but what possible interest can an immortal have in time?" He sighed rather mournfully. "Immortality must give one a great deal of satisfaction ‑watching all one's enemies grow old and die."
"It's much overrated," Belgarath said, leaning back in his chair with a brimming silver tankard. "Sometimes whole centuries go by when one doesn't have any enemies and there's nothing to do but watch the years roll by."
Zakath suddenly smiled broadly. "Do you know something?" he said to them all. "I feel better right now than I've felt in over twenty‑five years. It's as if a great weight has been lifted from me."
"Probably an aftereffect of the poison," Velvet suggested archly. "Get plenty of rest, and it should pass in a month or so."
"Is the Margravine always like this?" Zakath asked.
"Sometimes she's even worse," Silk replied morosely.
As they emerged from beneath the wide‑spread canvas, Garion looked around for his horse, a serviceable roan with a long, hooked nose, but he could not seem to see the animal. Then he suddenly noticed that his saddle and packs were on a different horse, a very large dark gray stallion. Puzzled, he looked at Zakath, who was watching him intently. "What's this?" he asked.
"Just a little token of my unbounded respect, Garion," Zakath said, his eyes alight. "Your roan was an adequate mount, I suppose, but he was hardly a regal animal. A King needs a kingly horse, and I think you'll find that Chretienne can lend himself to any occasion that requires ceremony."
"Chretienne?"
"That's his name. He's been the pride of my stable here in Cthol Murgos. Don't you have a stable at Riva?"
Garion laughed. "My kingdom's an island, Zakath. We're more interested in boats than in horses." He looked at the proud gray standing with his neck arched and with one hoof lightly pawing the earth and was suddenly overcome with gratitude. He clasped the Mallorean Emperor's hand warmly. "This is a magnificent gift, Zakath," he said.
"Of course it is. I'm a magnificent fellow ‑or hadn't you noticed? Ride him, Garion. Feel the wind in your face and let the thunder of his hooves fill your blood."
"Well," Garion said, trying to control his eagerness, "maybe he and I really ought to get to know each other."
Zakath laughed with delight. "Of course," he said.
Garion approached the big gray horse, who watched him quite calmly. "I guess we'll be sharing a saddle for a while," he said to the animal. Chretienne nickered and nudged at Garion with his nose.
"He wants to run," Eriond said. "I'll ride with you, if you don't mind. Horse wants to run, too."
"All right," Garion agreed. "Let's go then." He gathered the reins, set his foot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. The gray was running almost before Garion was in place.
It was a new experience. Garion
had spent many hours riding ‑sometimes for weeks on end. He had always taken care of his mounts, as any good Sendar would, but there had never really been any personal attachment before. For him, a horse had simply been a means of conveyance, a way to get from one place to another, and riding had never been a particular source of pleasure.
With this great stallion, Chretienne, however, it was altogether different. There was a kind of electric thrill to the feel of the big horse's muscles bunching and flowing beneath him as they ran out across the winter‑blown grass toward a rounded hill a mile or so distant, with Eriond and his chestnut stallion racing alongside.
When they reached the hilltop, Garion was breathless and laughing with sheer delight. He reined in, and Chretienne reared, pawing at the air with his hooves, wanting to be off again.
"Now you know, don't you?" Eriond asked with a broad smile.
"Yes," Garion admitted, still laughing, "I guess I do.
"I wonder how I missed it all these years."
"You have to have the right horse," Eriond told him wisely. He gave Garion a sidelong glance. "You know that you'll never be the same again, don't you?"
"That's all right," Garion replied. "I was getting tired of the old way anyhow." He pointed at a low string of hills outlined against the crisp blue sky a league or so on ahead. "Why don't we go over there and see what's on the other side?" he suggested.
"Why not?" Eriond laughed.
And so they did.
The Emperor's household staff was well organized, and a goodly number of them rode on ahead to prepare their night's encampment at a spot almost precisely halfway to the coast. The column started early the following morning, riding again along a frosty track beneath a deep blue sky. It was late afternoon when they crested a hill to look out over the expanse of the Sea of the East, rolling a dark blue under the winter sun and with smoky-looking cloud banks the color of rust blurring the far horizon. Two dozen ships with their red sails furled stood at anchor in the indented curve of a shallow bay far below, and Garion looked with some puzzlement at Zakath.
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