‘It’s so unlike the outside,’ Lelldorin observed, his face puzzled.
‘What’s that?’ Silk asked him.
‘The outside is so grim – so stiff and gray – but once you come inside the building, it’s all warmth and color.’
Torgan smiled. ‘It’s something outsiders don’t expect,’ he agreed. ‘Our houses are very much like ourselves. Out of necessity, the outside is bleak. The city of Riva was built to defend the Orb, and every house is part of the overall fortifications. We can’t change the outside, but inside we have art and poetry and music. We ourselves wear the gray cloak. It’s a useful garment – woven from the wool of goats – light, warm, nearly waterproof – but it won’t accept dye, so it’s always gray. But even though we’re gray on the outside, that doesn’t mean that we have no love of beauty.’
The more Garion thought about that, the more he began to understand these bleak-appearing islanders. The stiff reserve of the gray-cloaked Rivans was a face they presented to the world. Behind that face, however, was an altogether different kind of people.
The apprentices for the most part were blowing the delicate little bottles that were the major item in the trade with the perfume makers of Tol Borune. One apprentice, however, worked alone, fashioning a glass ship cresting a crystal wave. He was a sandy-haired young man with an intent expression. When he looked up from his work and saw Garion, his eyes widened, but he lowered his head quickly to his work again.
Back at the front of the shop as they were preparing to leave, Garion asked to look once more at the delicate glass bird perched on its gleaming twig. The piece was so beautiful that it made his heart ache.
‘Dose it please your Majesty?’ It was the young apprentice, who had quietly entered from the workroom. He spoke softly. ‘I was in the square yesterday when Brand introduced you to the people,’ he explained. ‘I recognized you as soon as I saw you.’
‘What’s your name?’ Garion asked curiously.
‘Joran, your Majesty,’ the apprentice replied.
‘Do you suppose we could skip the “Majesties”?’ Garion said rather plaintively. ‘I’m not really comfortable with that sort of thing yet. The whole business came as a complete surprise to me.’
Joran grinned at him. ‘There are all kinds of rumors in the city. They say you were raised by Belgarath the Sorcerer in his tower in the Vale of Aldur.’
‘Actually I was raised in Sendaria by my Aunt Pol, Belgarath’s daughter.’
‘Polgara the Sorceress?’ Joran looked impressed. ‘Is she as beautiful as men say she is?’
‘I’ve always thought so.’
‘Can she really turn herself into a dragon?’
‘I suppose she could if she wanted to,’ Garion admitted, ‘but she prefers the shape of an owl. She loves birds for some reason – and birds go wild at the sight of her. They talk to her all the time.’
‘What an amazing thing,’ Joran marvelled. ‘I’d give anything to be able to meet her.’ He pursed his lips thoughtfully, hesitating a moment. ‘Do you think she’d like this little thing?’ he blurted finally, touching the crystal wren.
‘Like it?’ Garion said. ‘She’d love it.’
‘Would you give it to her for me?’
‘Joran!’ Garion was startled at the idea. ‘I couldn’t take it. It’s too valuable, and I don’t have any money to pay you for it.’
Joran smiled shyly. ‘It’s only glass,’ he pointed out, ‘and glass is only melted sand – and sand’s the cheapest thing in the world. If you think she’d like it, I’d really like for her to have it. Would you take it to her for me – please? Tell her it’s a gift from Joran the glassmaker.’
‘I will, Joran,’ Garion promised, impulsively clasping the young man’s hand. ‘I’ll be proud to carry it to her for you.’
‘I’ll wrap it,’ Joran said then. ‘It’s not good for glass to go out in the cold from a warm room.’ He reached for the piece of velvet, then stopped. ‘I’m not being entirely honest with you,’ he admitted, looking a bit guilty. ‘The wren’s a very good piece, and if the nobles up at the Citadel see it, they might want me to make other things for them. I need a few commissions if I’m ever going to open my own shop, and—’ He glanced once at Torgan’s daughter, his heart in his eyes.
‘—And you can’t get married until you’ve established your own business?’ Garion suggested.
‘Your Majesty will be a very wise king,’ Joran said gravely.
‘If I can get past all the blunders I’ll make during the first few weeks,’ Garion added ruefully.
Later that afternoon he delivered the crystal bird to Aunt Pol in her private apartment.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, taking the cloth-wrapped object.
‘It’s a present for you from a young glassmaker I met down in the city,’ Garion replied. ‘He insisted that I give it to you. His name’s Joran. Be careful. I think it’s kind of fragile.’
Aunt Pol gently unwrapped the crystal piece. Her eyes slowly widened as she started at the exquisitely wrought bird. ‘Oh Garion,’ she murmured, ‘it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘He’s awfully good,’ Garion told her. ‘He works for a glassmaker called Torgan, and Torgan says he’s a genius. He wants to meet you.’
‘And I want to meet him,’ she breathed, her eyes lost in the glowing detail of the glass figure. Then she carefully set the crystal wren down on a table. Her hands were trembling and her glorious eyes were full of tears.
‘What’s wrong, Aunt Pol?’ Garion asked her, slightly alarmed.
‘Nothing, Garion,’ she replied. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Why are you crying then?’
‘You’d never understand, dear,’ she told him. Then she put her arms around him and pulled him to her in an almost fierce embrace.
The coronation took place at noon the following day. The Hall of the Rivan King was full to overflowing with nobles and royalty, and the city below was alive with the sound of bells.
Garion could never actually remember very much of his coronation. He did remember that the ermine-bordered cape was hot and that the plain gold crown the Rivan Deacon placed on his head was very heavy. What stood out most in his mind was the way the Orb of Aldur filled the entire Hall with an intense blue light that grew brighter and brighter as he approached the throne and overwhelmed his ears with that strange, exultant song he always seemed to hear whenever he came near it. The song of the Orb was so loud that he scarcely heard the great cheer that greeted him as he turned, robed and crowned, to face the throng in the Hall of the Rivan King.
He did, however, hear one voice very clearly.
‘Hail, Belgarion,’ the voice in his mind said quietly to him.
Chapter Thirteen
King Belgarion sat somewhat disconsolately on his throne in the Hall of the Rivan King, listening to the endless, droning voice of Valgon, the Tolnedran ambassador. It had not been an easy time for Garion. There were so many things he did not know how to do. For one thing, he was totally incapable of giving orders; for another, he discovered that he had absolutely no time to himself and that he had not the faintest idea of how to dismiss the servants who continually hovered near him. He was followed wherever he went, and he had even given up trying to catch the overzealous bodyguard or valet or messenger who was always in the passageways behind him.
His friends seemed uncomfortable in his presence and they persisted in calling him ‘your Majesty’ no matter how many times he asked them not to. He didn’t feel any different, and his mirror told him that he didn’t look any different, but everyone behaved as if he had changed somehow. The look of relief that passed over their faces each time he left injured him, and he retreated into a kind of protective shell, nursing his loneliness in silence.
Aunt Pol stood continually at his side now, but there was a difference there as well. Before, he had always been an adjunct to her, but now it was the other way around, and that seemed profoundly unnatural.
Garion’s counterstrategy was very simple; he refused to sign anything.
‘It’s exactly the same as the one they offered last week,’ Aunt Pol’s voice observed in the silence of his mind. ‘All they did was switch the clauses around and change a few words. Tell him no.’
Garion looked at the smug ambassador with something very close to active dislike. ‘Totally out of the question,’ he replied shortly.
Valgon began to protest, but Garion cut him short. ‘It’s identical to last week’s proposal, Valgon, and we both know it. The answer was no then, and it’s still no. I will not give Tolnedra preferred status in trade with Riva; I will not agree to ask Ran Borune’s permission before I sign any agreement with any other nation; and I most certainly will not agree to any modification of the terms of the Accords of Vo Mimbre. Please ask Ran Borune not to pester me any more until he’s ready to talk sense.’
‘Your Majesty!’ Valgon sounded shocked. ‘One does not speak so to the Emperor of Tolnedra.’
‘I’ll speak any way I please,’ Garion told him. ‘You have my – our permission to leave.’
‘Your Majesty—’
‘You’re dismissed, Valgon,’ Garion cut him off.
The ambassador drew himself up, bowed coldly, and stalked from the Hall.
‘Not bad,’ King Anheg drawled from the partially concealed embrasure where he and the other kings generally gathered. The presence of these royal onlookers made Garion perpetually uneasy. He knew they were watching his every move, judging, evaluating his decisions, his manner, his words. He knew he was bound to make mistakes during these first few months, and he’d have greatly preferred to make them without an audience, but how could he tell a group of sovereign kings that he would prefer not to be the absolute center of their attention?
‘A trifle blunt, though, wouldn’t you say?’ King Fulrach suggested.
‘He’ll learn to be more diplomatic in time,’ King Rhodar predicted. ‘I expect that Ran Borune will find this directness refreshing – just as soon as he recovers from the fit of apoplexy our Belgarion’s reply is going to give him.’
The assembled kings and nobles all laughed at King Rhodar’s sally, and Garion tried without success to keep from blushing. ‘Do they have to do that?’ he whispered furiously to Aunt Pol. ‘Every time I so much as hiccup, I get all this commentary.’
‘Don’t be surly, dear,’ she replied calmly. ‘It was a trifle impolite, though. Are you really sure you want to take that tone with your future father-in-law?’
That was something of which Garion most definitely did not wish to be reminded. The Princess Ce’Nedra had still not forgiven him for his sudden elevation, and Garion was having grave doubts about the whole notion of marrying her. Much as he liked her – and he did like her – he regretfully concluded that Ce’Nedra would not make him a good wife. She was clever and spoiled, and she had a streak of stubbornness in her nature as wide as an oxcart. Garion was fairly certain that she would take a perverse delight in making his life as miserable as she possibly could. As he sat on his throne listening to the jocular comments of the Alorn Kings, he began to wish that he had never heard of the Orb.
As always, the thought of the jewel made him glance up to where it glowed on the pommel of the massive sword hanging above the throne. There was something so irritatingly smug about the way it glowed each time he sat on the throne. It always seemed to be congratulating itself – as if he, Belgarion of Riva, were somehow its own private creation. Garion did not understand the Orb. There was an awareness about it; he knew that. His mind had tentatively touched that awareness and then had carefully retreated. Garion had been touched on occasion by the minds of Gods, but the consciousness of the Orb was altogether different. There was a power in it he could not even begin to comprehend. More than that, its attachment for him seemed quite irrational. Garion knew himself, and he was painfully aware that he was not that lovable. But each time he came near it, it would begin to glow insufferably, and his mind would fill with that strange, soaring song he had first heard in Ctuchik’s turret. The song of the Orb was a kind of compelling invitation. Garion knew that if he should take it up, its will would join with his, and there would be nothing that between them they could not do. Torak had raised the Orb and had cracked the world with it. Garion knew that if he chose, he could raise the Orb and mend that crack. More alarming was the fact that as soon as the notion occurred to him, the Orb began to provide him with precise instructions on how to go about it.
‘Pay attention, Garion,’ Aunt Pol’s voice said to him.
The business of the morning, however, was very nearly completed. There were a few other petitions and a peculiar note of congratulation that had arrived that morning from Nyissa. The tone of the note was tentatively conciliatory, and it appeared over the signature of Sadi the eunuch. Garion decided that he wanted to think things through rather carefully before he drafted a reply. The memory of what had happened in Salmissra’s throne room still bothered him, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to normalize relations with the snakepeople just yet.
Then, since there was no further court business, he excused himself and left the Hall. His ermine-trimmed robe was very hot, and the crown was beginning to give him a headache. He most definitely wanted to return to his apartment and change clothes.
The guards at the side door to the Hall bowed respectfully as he passed them and drew up into formation to accompany him. ‘I’m not really going anyplace,’ Garion told the sergeant in charge. ‘Just back to my rooms, and I know the way. Why don’t you and your men go have some lunch?’
‘Your Majesty is very kind,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Will you need us later?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll send somebody to let you know.’
The sergeant bowed again, and Garion went on along the dimly lighted corridor. He had found this passageway about two days after his coronation. It was relatively unused and it was the most direct route from the royal apartment to the throne room. Garion liked it because he could follow it to and from the great Hall with a minimum of pomp and ceremony. There were only a few doors, and the candles on the walls were spaced far enough apart to keep the light subdued. The dimness seemed comforting for some reason, almost as if it restored in some measure his anonymity.
He walked along, lost in thought. There were so many things to worry about. The impending war between the West and the Angarak kingdoms was uppermost in his mind. He, as Overlord of the West, would be expected to lead the West; and Kal Torak, awakened from his slumber, would come against him with the multitudes of Angarak. How could he possibly face so terrible an adversary? The very name of Torak chilled him, and what did he know about armies and battles? Inevitably, he would blunder, and Torak would smash all the forces of the West with one mailed fist.
Not even sorcery could help him. His own power was still too untried to risk a confrontation with Torak. Aunt Pol would do her best to aid him, of course, but without Belgarath they had little hope of success; and Belgarath had still not given any indication that his collapse had not permanently impaired his abilities.
Garion did not want to think about that any more, but his ot
her problems were nearly as bad. Very soon he was going to have to come to grips with Ce’Nedra’s adamant refusal to make peace. If she would only be reasonable, Garion was sure that the marginal difference in their rank would not make all that much difference. He liked Ce’Nedra. He was even prepared to admit that his feelings for her went quite a bit deeper than that. She could – usually when she wanted something – be absolutely adorable. If they could just get past this one minor problem, things might turn out rather well. That possibility brightened his thoughts considerably. Musing about it, he continued on down the corridor.
He had gone only a few more yards when he heard that furtive step behind him again. He sighed, wishing that his everpresent attendant would find some other amusement. Then he shrugged and, deep in thought about the Nyissan question, he continued on along the corridor.
The warning was quite sharp and came at the last instant. ‘Look out!’ the voice in his mind barked at him. Not knowing exactly why, not even actually thinking about it, Garion reacted instantly, diving headlong to the floor. His crown went rolling as, with a great shower of sparks, a thrown dagger clashed into the stone wall and went bouncing and skittering along the flagstones. Garion swore, rolled quickly and came to his feet with his own dagger in his hand. Outraged and infuriated by this sudden attack, he ran back along the corridor, his ermine-trimmed robe flapping and tangling cumbersomely around his legs.
He caught only one or two momentary glimpses of his gray-cloaked attacker as he ran after the knife thrower. The assassin dodged into a recessed doorway some yards down the corridor, and Garion heard a heavy door slam behind the fleeing man. When he reached the door and wrenched it open, his dagger still in his fist, he found only another long, dim passageway. There was no one in sight.
His hands were shaking, but it was more from anger than from fright. He briefly considered calling the guards, but almost immediately dismissed that idea. To continue following the assailant was, the more he thought about it, even more unwise. He had no weapon but his dagger, and the possibility of meeting someone armed with a sword occurred to him. There might even be more than one involved in this business, and these dimly lighted and deserted corridors were most certainly not a good place for confrontations.
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