About half an hour before noon, Garion, in response to a summons from Aunt Pol, walked down a long stone corridor toward a room a few steps from the huge, carved doors that gave entrance into the Hall of the Rivan King. He was wearing his best doublet and hose, and his soft leather half-boots had been brushed until they glowed. Aunt Pol wore a deep blue robe, cowled and belted at the waist. For once Belgarath, also blue-robed, did not look rumpled or spotted. The old man’s face was very serious; as he and Aunt Pol spoke together, there was no hint of the banter that usually marked their conversation. Seated quietly in the corner of the little room, Errand, dressed all in white linen, gravely watched.
‘You look very nice, Garion,’ Aunt Pol said, reaching out to smooth his sandy hair back from his forehead.
‘Shouldn’t we go inside?’ Garion asked. He had seen others, gray-clad Rivans and the more brightly garbed visitors entering the hall.
‘We will, Garion,’ she replied. ‘All in good time.’ She turned to Belgarath. ‘How long?’ she asked.
‘Another quarter-hour or so,’ he replied.
‘Is everything ready?’
‘Ask Garion,’ the old man told her. ‘I’ve taken care of everything I can. The rest is up to him.’
Aunto Pol turned to Garion then, her eyes very serious and the white lock at her brow gleaming silver in the darkness of her hair. ‘Well, Garion,’ she asked, ‘are you ready?’
He looked at her, baffled. ‘I had the oddest dream last night,’ he said. ‘Everyone kept asking me that same question. What does it mean, Aunt Pol? Am I ready for what?’
‘That will become clearer in a bit,’ Belgarath told him. ‘Take out your amulet. You’ll wear it on the outside of your clothes today.’
‘I thought it was supposed to be out of sight.’
‘Today’s different,’ the old man replied. ‘As a matter of fact, today’s unlike any day I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen a lot of them.’
‘Because it’s Erastide?’
‘That’s part of it.’ Belgarath reached inside his robe and drew out his own silver medallion. He glanced at it briefly. ‘It’s getting a little worn,’ he noted. Then he smiled. ‘—but then, so am I, I suppose.’
Aunt Pol drew out her own amulet. She and Belgarath each reached out to take Garion’s hands and then to join their own.
‘It’s been a long time coming, Polgara,’ Belgarath said.
‘Yes it has, father,’ Aunt Pol agreed.
‘Any regrets?’
‘I can live with them, Old Wolf.’
‘Let’s go in then.’
Garion started toward the door.
‘Not you, Garion,’ Aunt Pol told him. ‘You’ll wait here with Errand. You two will come in late.’
‘You’ll send somebody for us?’ he asked her. ‘What I mean is, how will we know when we’re supposed to come in?’
‘You’ll know,’ Belgarath told him. And then they left him alone with Errand.
‘They didn’t give us very complete instructions, did they?’ Garion said to the child. ‘I hope we don’t make any mistakes.’
Errand smiled confidently, reached out and put his small hand in Garion’s. At his touch, the song of the Orb filled Garion’s mind again, sponging away his worries and doubts. He could not have said how long he stood holding the child’s hand and immersed in that song.
‘It’s come at last, Belgarion.’ The voice seemed to come from outside somehow, no longer confined within Garion’s mind, and the look on Errand’s face made it quite clear that he also could hear the words.
‘Is this what I’m supposed to do?’ Garion asked.
‘It’s part of it.’
‘What are they doing in there?’ Garion looked rather curiously toward the door.
‘They’re getting the people in the Hall ready for what’s going to happen.’
‘Will they be ready?’
‘Will you?’ There was a pause. ‘Are you ready, Belgarion?’
‘Yes,’ Garion replied. ‘Whatever it is, I think I’m ready for it.’
‘Let’s go then.’
‘You’ll tell me what to do?’
‘If it’s necessary.’
With his hand still holding Errand’s, Garion walked toward the door. He raised his other hand to push it open, but it swung inexplicably open ahead of him before he touched it.
There were two guards at the huge, carved door a few steps down the hall, but they seemed frozen into immobility as Garion and Errand approached. Once again Garion raised his hand, and the immense doors to the Hall of the Rivan King swung silently open in response to his hand alone.
The Hall of the Rivan King was a huge, vaulted throne room with massive and ornately carved wooden buttresses supporting the ceiling beams. The walls were festooned with banners and green boughs, and hundreds of candles burned in iron sconces. Three great stone firepits were set at intervals in the floor; instead of logs, blocks of peat glowed in the pits, radiating an even, fragrant warmth. The Hall was crowded, but there was a broad avenue of blue carpet leading from the doors to the throne. Garion’s eyes, however, scarcely noted the crowd. His thoughts seemed suspended by the song of the Orb, which now filled his mind completely. Bemused, freed of all thought or fear or hint of self-consciousness, he walked with Errand close beside him toward the front of the Hall where Aunt Pol and Belgarath stood, one on each side of the throne.
The throne of the Rivan King had been chiseled from a single basalt block. Its back and arms were all one height, and there was a massiveness about it that made it seem more permanent than the mountains themselves. It sat solidly against the wall and, hanging point downward above it, was a great sword.
Somewhere in the Citadel, a bell had begun to peal, and the sound of it mingled with the song of the Orb as Garion and Errand moved down the long, carpeted pathway toward the front of the hall. As they passed each sconce, the candles inexplicably dropped to the merest pinpoint. There was no draft, no flickering, as, one by one, the candles dimmed and the Hall filled with deepening shadow.
When they reached the front of the Hall, Belgarath, his face a mystery, looked gravely at them for a moment, then looked out at the throng assembled in the Hall of the Rivan King. ‘Behold the Orb of Aldur,’ he announced in a solemn voice.
Errand released Garion’s hand, tugged open the pouch, and reached inside. As he turned to face the darkened Hall, Errand drew the round gray stone out of the pouch and lifted it with both hands, displaying it for all to see.
The song of the Orb was overpowering; joining with it, there was a kind of vast, shimmering sound. The sound seemed to soar, rising, ringing higher and higher as Garion stood beside the child, looking at the faces of the assemblage. Within the stone Errand held aloft there seemed to be a pinpoint of intense blue light. The light grew brighter as the shimmering sound rose higher. The faces before him were all familiar, Garion could see. Barak was there and Lelldorin, Hettar, Durnik, Silk, and Mandorallen. Seated in a royal box beside the Tolnedran ambassador, with Adara and Ariana directly behind her, was Ce’Nedra, looking every inch an Imperial Princess. But, mingled somehow with the familiar faces were others – strange, stark faces, each so caught up in a single overriding identity that they seemed almost masklike. Mingled with Barak was the Dreadful Bear, and Hettar bore with him the sense of thousands upon thousands of horses. With Silk stood the figure of the Guide and with Relg that of the Blind Man. Lelldorin was the Archer and Mandorallen the Knight Protector. Seeming to hover in the air above Taiba was the sorrowing form of the Mother of the Race That Died, and her sorrow was like the sorrow of Mara. And Ce’Nedra was no longer a princess but now a queen – the one Ctuchik had called the Queen of the World. Strangest of all, Durnik, good solid Durnik, stood with his two lives plainly evident on his face. In the searing blue light of the Orb and with the strange sound shimmering in his ears, Garion looked in wonder at his friends, realizing with amazement that he was seeing for the first time what Belgarath and Aunt Pol h
ad seen all along.
From behind him he heard Aunt Pol speak, her voice calm and very gentle. ‘Your task is completed, Errand. You may now give up the Orb.’
The little boy crowed with delight, turned, and presented the glowing Orb to Garion. Uncomprehending, Garion stared at the fiery stone. He could not take it. It was death to touch the Orb.
‘Reach forth thy hand, Belgarion, and receive thy birthright from the child who hath borne it unto thee.’ It was the familiar voice, and yet at the same time it was not. When this voice spoke, there was no possibility of refusal. Garion’s hand stretched out without his even being aware that it was moving.
‘Errand!’ the child declared, firmly depositing the Orb in Garion’s outstretched hand. Garion felt the peculiar, seething touch of it against the mark on his palm. It was alive! He could feel the life in it, even as he stared in blank incomprehension at the living fire he held in his naked hand.
‘Return the Orb to the pommel of the sword of the Rivan King,’ the voice instructed, and Garion turned with instant, unthinking obedience. He stepped up onto the seat of the basalt throne and then onto the wide ledge formed by its back and arms. He stretched up, taking hold of the huge sword hilt to steady himself, and placed the Orb on the great sword’s pommel. There was a faint but clearly audible click as the Orb and the sword became one, and Garion could feel the living force of the Orb surging down through the hilt he gripped in one hand. The great blade began to glow, and the shimmering sound rose yet another octave. Then the huge weapon quite suddenly came free from the wall to which it had been attached for so many centuries. The throng in the hall gasped. As the sword began to drop free, Garion caught hold of the hilt with both hands, half-turning as he did so, striving to keep the great blade from falling to the floor.
What pulled him off balance was the fact that it had no apparent weight. The sword was so huge that he should not have been able to hold it, much less lift it; but as he braced himself with his feet widespread and his shoulders pressed back against the wall, the point of the sword rose easily until the great blade stood upright before him. He stared at it in amazement, feeling a strange throbbing between the hands he had clasped about the hilt. The Orb flared and began to pulsate. Then, as the shimmering sound soared into a mighty crescendo of jubilation, the sword of the Rivan King burst into a great tongue of searing blue flame. Without knowing why, Garion lifted the flaming sword over his head with both hands, staring up at it in wonder.
‘Let Aloria rejoice!’ Belgarath called out in a voice like thunder, ‘for the Rivan King has returned! All hail Belgarion, King of Riva and Overlord of the West!’
And yet in the midst of the turmoil that followed and even with the shimmering chorus of what seemed a million million voices raised in an exultation echoing from one end of the universe to the other, there was a sullen clang of iron as if the rust-scoured door of some dark tomb had suddenly burst open, and the sound of that clanging chilled Garion’s heart. A voice echoed hollowly from the tomb, and it did not join the universal rejoicing. Ripped from its centuries of slumber, the voice in the tomb awoke raging and crying out for blood.
Stunned past all thought, Garion stood with his flaming sword aloft as, with a steely rustle, the assembled Alorns unsheathed their swords to raise them in salute.
‘Hail Belgarion, my King,’ Brand, the Rivan Warder, boomed, sinking to one knee and lifting his sword. His four sons knelt behind him, their swords also lifted. ‘Hail Belgarion, King of Riva!’ they cried.
‘Hail Belgarion!’ The great shout shook the Hall of the Rivan King, and a forest of upraised swords glittered in the fiery blue light of the flaming blade in Garion’s hands. Somewhere within the Citadel, a bell began to peal. As the news raced through the breathless city below, other bells caught the sound, and their iron rejoicing echoed back from the rocky crags to announce to the icy waters of the sea the return of the Rivan King.
One in the Hall, however, did not rejoice. In the instant that the kindling of the sword had irrevocably announced Garion’s identity, Princess Ce’Nedra had started to her feet, her face deathly pale and her eyes wide with absolute consternation. She had instantly grasped something that eluded him – something so unsettling that it drained the color from her face and brought her to her feet to stare at him with an expression of total dismay. Then there suddenly burst from the lips of the Imperial Princess Ce’Nedra a wail of outrage and protest.
With a voice that rang in the rafters she cried out, ‘OH NO!’
Chapter Twelve
The worst part of it all was that people kept bowing to him. Garion had not the slightest idea of how he should respond. Should he bow back? Should he nod slightly in acknowledgment? Or perhaps might it not be better just to ignore the whole business and act as if he hadn’t seen it, or something? But what was he supposed to do when someone called him, ‘Your Majesty’?
The events of the previous day were still a confused blur in his mind. He seemed to remember being presented to the people of the city – standing on the battlements of Iron-grip’s Citadel with a great, cheering throng below and the huge sword that somehow seemed weightless still blazing in his hands. Stupendous as they were, however, the overt events of the day were unimportant when compared to things which were taking place on a different level of reality. Enormous forces had focused on the moment of the revelation of the Rivan King, and Garion was still numb as a result of things he had seen and perceived in that blinding instant when he had at last discovered who he was.
There had been endless congratulations and a great many preparations for his coronation, but all of that blurred in his mind. Had his life depended upon it, he could not have given a rational, coherent account of the day’s events.
Today promised to be even worse, if that were possible. He had not slept well. For one thing, the great bed in the royal apartments to which he had been escorted the previous evening was definitely uncomfortable. It had great round posts rising from each corner and it was canopied and curtained in purple velvet. It seemed much too large for him and it was noticeably on the soft side. For the past year and more he had done most of his sleeping on the ground, and the down-filled mattress on the royal bed was too yielding to be comfortable. There was, moreover, the sure and certain knowledge that as soon as he arose, he was going to be the absolute center of attention.
On the whole, he decided, it might just be simpler to stay in bed. The more he thought about that, the better it sounded. The door to the royal bedchamber, however, was not locked. Sometime not long after sunrise it swung open, and Garion could hear someone moving around. Curious he peeked through the purple drapery enclosing his bed. A sober-looking servant was busily opening the drapes at the window and stirring up the fire. Garion’s attention, however, moved immediately to the large, covered silver tray sitting on the table by the fireplace. His nose recognized sausage and warm, fresh-baked bread – and butter – there was definitely butter involved somewhere on that tray. His stomach began to speak to him in a loud voice.
The servant glanced around the room to make sure everything was in order, then came to the bed with a no-nonsense expression. Garion burrowed quickly back under the covers.
‘Breakfast, your Majesty,’ the servant announced firmly, drawing the curtains open and tying them back.
Garion sighed. Quite obviously, decisions about staying in bed were not his to make. ‘Thank you,’ he replied.
‘Does your Majesty require anything else?’ the servant asked solicitously, holding open a robe for Garion to put on.
‘Uh – no – not right now, thank you,’ Garion answered, climbing out of the royal bed and down the three carpeted steps leading up to it. The servant helped him into the robe, then bowed and quietly left the room. Garion went to the table, seated himself, lifted the cover from the tray, and assaulted breakfast vigorously.
When he had finished eating, he sat for a time in a large, blue-upholstered armchair looking out the window at the snowy crags lo
oming above the city. The storm that had raked the coast for days had blown off – at least for the moment; the winter sun was bright, and the morning sky very blue. The young Rivan King stared for a time out his window, lost in thought.
Something nagged at the back of his memory – something he had heard once but had since forgotten. It seemed that there was something he ought to remember that involved Princess Ce’Nedra. The tiny girl had fled from the Hall of the Rivan King almost immediately after the sword had so flamboyantly announced his identity the previous day. He was fairly sure that it was all mixed together. Whatever it was that he was trying to recall had been directly involved in her flight. With some people it might be better to let things quiet down before clearing the air, but Garion knew that this was not the proper way to deal with Ce’Nedra. Things should never be allowed to fester in her mind. That only made matters worse. He sighed and began to dress.
As he walked purposefully through the corridors, he met with startled looks and hasty bows. He soon realized that the events of the preceding day had forever robbed him of his anonymity. Someone – Garion could never catch a glimpse of his face – even went so far as to follow him, probably in the hope of performing some service. Whoever it was kept a discreet distance behind, but Garion caught occasional glimpses of him far back along the corridor – a gray-cloaked man who moved on strangely noiseless feet. Garion did not like being followed, whatever the reason, but he resisted the urge to turn around and tell the man to go away.
The Princess Ce’Nedra had been given several rooms just down the hall from Aunt Pol’s apartments, and Garion steeled himself as he raised his hand to rap on the door.
‘Your Majesty,’ Ce’Nedra’s maid greeted him with a startled curtsy.
‘Would you please ask her Highness if I might have a word with her?’ Garion asked.
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