Javelin looked at him blankly.
“It’s something that Belgarion and I heard about,” Errand explained. “And Belgarath is curious about it, too. I thought you might have heard about it.”
“I can’t say that I have,” Javelin admitted. “Of course we’re a long way from Darshiva.”
“What’s Darshiva?” Errand asked.
“It’s one of the principalities of the old Melcene Empire in eastern Mallorea. Zandramas is a Darshivan name. Didn’t you know that?”
“No. We didn’t.”
There was a light tap on the door.
“Yes?” Javelin answered.
The door opened, and a young lady of perhaps nineteen or twenty came in. Her hair was the color of honey, her eyes were a warm, golden brown, and she wore a plain-looking gray dress. Her expression was serious, but there was just the hint of a dimple in each of her cheeks. “Uncle,” she said, and her voice had a kind of vibrancy about it that made it almost irresistibly compelling.
Javelin’s hard, angular face softened noticeably. “Yes, Liselle?” he said.
“Is this little Liselle?” Silk exclaimed.
“Not quite so little any more,” Javelin said.
“The last time I saw her she was still in braids.”
“She combed out the braids a few years ago,” Javelin said drily, “and look what was hiding under them.”
“I am looking,” Silk said admiringly.
“The reports you wanted, uncle,” the girl said, laying a sheaf of parchment on the table. Then she turned to Kheva and curtsied to him with incredible grace. “Your Highness,” she greeted him.
“Margravine Liselle,” the little prince replied with a polite bow.
“And Prince Kheldar,” the girl said then.
“We weren’t at all so formal when you were a child,” Silk protested.
“But then, I’m not a child any more, your Highness.”
Silk looked over at Javelin. “When she was a little girl, she used to pull my nose.”
“But it’s such a long, interesting nose,” Liselle said. And then she smiled, and the dimples suddenly sprang to life.
“Liselle is helping out here,” Javelin said. “She’ll be entering the academy in a few months.”
“You’re going to be a spy?” Silk asked her incredulously.
“It’s the family business, Prince Kheldar. My father and mother were both spies. My uncle here is a spy. All of my friends are spies. How could I possibly be anything else?”
Silk looked a trifle off-balance. “It just doesn’t seem appropriate, for some reason.”
“That probably means that I’ll be quite successful, doesn’t it? Youlook like a spy, Prince Kheldar. I don’t, so I won’t have nearly as many problems as you’ve had.”
Though the girl’s answers were clever, even pert, Errand could see something in her warm, brown eyes that Silk probably could not. Despite the fact that the Margravine Liselle was obviously a grown woman, Silk just as obviously still thought of her as a little girl -one who had pulled his nose.
The look she gavehim,however, was not the look of a little girl, and Errand realized that she had been waiting for a number of years for the opportunity to meet Silk on adult terms. Errand covered his mouth with his hand to hide a smile. The wily Prince Kheldar had somevery interesting times ahead of him.
The door opened again, and a nondescript man came in, quickly crossed to the table, and whispered something to Javelin. The man’s face, Errand noticed, was pale, and his hands were trembling.
Javelin’s face grew set, and he sighed. He gave no other outward sign of emotion, however. He rose to his feet and came around the table. “Your Majesty.” he said formally to Prince Kheva, “I believe that you should return to the palace immediately.”
Silk and Liselle both caught the changed form of address and looked sharply at the Chief of Drasnian Intelligence.
“I believe that we should all accompany the King back to the palace,” Javelin said sadly. “We must offer our condolences to his mother and aid her in any way we can in her hour of grief.”
The King of Drasnia looked at his intelligence chief, his eyes very wide and his lip trembling.
Errand gently took the little boy’s hand in his. “We’d better go, Kheva,” he said. “Your mother will need you very much right now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Kings of Aloria gathered in Boktor for the funeral of King Rhodar and the subsequent coronation of his son, Kheva. Such a gathering, of course, was traditional. Though the nations of the north had diverged somewhat over the centuries, the Alorns nonetheless had never forgotten their origins in the single kingdom of King Cherek Bear-shoulders five thousand years in the dim past, and they came together at such times in sadness to bury a brother. Because King Rhodar had been beloved and respected by other nations as well, Anheg of Cherek, Cho-Hag of Algaria, and Belgarion of Riva were joined by Fulrach of Sendaria, Korodullin of Arendia, and even by the erratic Drosta lek Thun of Gar og Nadrak. In addition, General Varana was present as the representative of Emperor Ran Borune XXIII of Tolnedra, and Sadi, Chief Eunuch of the palace of Queen Salmissra of Nyissa, was also in attendance.
The burial of an Alorn King was a serious matter, and it involved certain ceremonies at which only the other Alorn monarchs were present. No gathering of so many kings and high-ranking functionaries, however, could ever be entirely ceremonial. Inevitably, politics were of major concern in the quiet discussions which took place in the somberly draped corridors of the palace.
Errand, soberly dressed and quiet, drifted from one small gathering to another in those days preceding the funeral.
The Kings all knew him, but they seemed for some reason to take little note of his presence, and so he heard many conversations which he might perhaps not have heard had they stopped to consider the fact that he was no longer the little boy they had known during the campaign in Mishrak ac Thull.
The Alorn Kings -Belgarion in his usual blue doublet and hose, and the brutish-looking Anheg in his rumpled blue robe and dented crown, and quiet-voiced Cho-Hag in silver and black -stood together in a sable-draped embrasure in one of the broad hallways of the palace.
“Porenn is going to have to serve as regent,” Garion said. “Kheva is only six, and somebody’s going to have to run things until he’s old enough to take charge himself.”
“Awoman?” Anheg said, aghast.
“Anheg, are we going to havethat argument again?” Cho-Hag asked mildly.
“I don’t see any alternative, Anheg,” Garion said in his most persuasive manner. “King Drosta is almost drooling at the prospect of a boy king on the throne of Drasnia. His troops will be biting off chunks of the borderlands before the rest of us get home unless we put someone in charge here.”
“But Porenn is so tiny,” Anheg objected irrationally, “and so pretty. How can she possibly run a kingdom?”
“Probably very well,” Cho-Hag replied, shifting his weight carefully on his crippled legs. “Rhodar confided in her completely, and she was behind the scheme that eliminated Grodeg, after all.”
“About the only other person in Drasnia competent enough to take charge here is the Margrave Khendon,” Garion told the King of Cherek. “The one they call Javelin. Do you want the Chief of Drasnian Intelligence sitting behind the throne giving orders?”
Anheg shuddered. “That’s a ghastly thought. What about Prince Kheldar?”
Garion stared at him. “You’re not serious, Anheg,” he said incredulously. “Silk? As regent?”
“You might be right,” Anheg conceded after a moment’s thought. “Heis just a little unreliable, isn’t he?”
“Alittle?” Garion laughed.
“Are we agreed, then?” Cho-Hag asked. “It has to be Porenn, right?”
Anheg grumbled, but finally agreed.
The Algar King turned to Garion. “You’ll probably have to issue a proclamation.”
“Me? I don’t have any authority in Drasnia.”
“You’re the Overlord of the West,” Cho-Hag reminded him. “Just announce that you recognize Porenn’s regency and declare that anyone who argues about it or violates her borders will have to answer toyou.”
“That
should back Drosta off.” Anheg chuckled grossly. “He’s almost more frightened of you than he is of ‘Zakath. He probably has nightmares about your flaming sword sliding between his ribs.”
In another corridor, Errand came upon General Varana and Sadi the Eunuch. Sadi wore the mottled, iridescent silk robe of the Nyissans, and the general was draped in a silver Tolnedran mantle with broad bands of gold-colored trim across his shoulders.
“So, it’s official, then?” Sadi said in his oddly contralto voice, eyeing the general’s mantle.
“What’s that?” Varana asked him. The general was a blocky-looking man with iron-gray hair and a slightly amused expression.
“We had heard rumors in Sthiss Tor that Ran Borune had adopted you as his son.”
“Expediency.” Varana shrugged. “The major families of the Empire were dismantling Tolnedra in their scramble for the throne. Ran Borune had to take steps to quiet things down.”
“Youwill take the throne when he dies, though, won’t you?”