“Demons can’t bear the presence of a God. Neither Nahaz nor Mordja will come within ten leagues of this place.”
“He’s actually going to be here?”
“Only in a rather peculiar sense of the word. Once the enclave is expanded, that ditch of yours is going to be filled with a kind of blue light. Tell your men to stay out of it. Aldur’s still not fond of Angaraks, and peculiar things might happen to any soldier who strays into that light.” The old man suddenly grinned at Zakath. “You might find it interesting to know that your whole army here in Darshiva will be at least nominally subject to Aldur for a while,” he said. “He’s never had an army before, so it’s a little hard to say what he might decide to do with one.”
“Is your grandfather always like this?” Zakath asked Garion.
“Usually, yes.” Garion stood up, moving his fingers slightly. Then he crossed to the far side of the tent. Belgarath followed him. “What happened out there, Grand-lather?” Garion whispered.
Belgarath shrugged. “We talked with Aldur, and He promised to protect Zakath’s army.”
Garion shook his head. “No,” he said, “something else happened, too. Both you and Aunt Pol were looking very strange when you came back—and why did Eriond go with you?”
“It’s a long story,” the old man replied evasively.
“I’ve got time. I think I’d better know what’s going on.”
“No, as a matter of fact, you’d better not. Aldur was quite emphatic about that. If you know what’s happening, it might interfere with what you have to do.”
“I thought we’d exhausted that tired old excuse a long time ago. I’m grown now. You don’t have to try to keep me stupid.”
“I’ll tell you what, Garion. Since you’re the Child of Light, why don’t you go talk with Aldur yourself? He might even decide to tell you, but that’s up to Him. He told me to keep my mouth shut, and I’m not going to disobey my Master, whether you like it or not.” And he turned and went back to rejoin the others.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I still don’t understand why I have to look so shabby,” Zakath said as he reentered the pavilion. He wore a battered breastplate over a mail shirt and a rust-splotched helmet devoid of any kind of decoration. A patched brown cloak was draped over his shoulders, and a plain, leather-bound sword hung at his side.
“Explain it to him, Silk,” Belgarath said. “You’re the expert at this sort of thing.”
“It’s really not all that complicated,” Silk told the Emperor. “It’s fairly standard practice for travelers to hire a few mercenary soldiers to act as armed guards. Mercenaries don’t usually spend all that much time taking care of their equipment, so we had to make you look a bit down at the heels. All you and Garion have to do is wear armor and ride in front looking dangerous.”
A faint smile touched the Mallorean’s pallid features. “I didn’t think anonymity would require such pains.”
Silk grinned at him. “Actually, it’s harder to be anonymous than it is to be a grand duke. Now, please don’t be offended, Zakath, but we’re all going to forget we know how to say ‘your Majesty.’ Someone might make a slip at the wrong time.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Kheldar,” Zakath replied. “All the ‘Majesties’ grate on my ears sometimes anyway.”
Silk looked closely at their newest recruit’s face. “You really ought to spend more time outside, you know. You’re as pale as a sheet.”
“I can take care of that, Silk,” Polgara said. “I’ll mix up something to make him look suitably weather-beaten.”
“Oh, one other thing,” Silk added. “Your face is on every coin in Mallorea, isn’t it?”
“You should know. You’ve got most of them, haven’t you?”
“Well, I’ve picked up a few here and there,” Silk said modestly. “Let’s cover up that famous face with whiskers. Stop shaving.”
“Kheldar, I haven’t shaved my own face since my beard sprouted. I wouldn’t even know how to hold a razor.”
“You let somebody else near your throat with a razor? isn’t that a trifle imprudent?”
“Does that more or less cover everything?” Belgarath asked the little Drasnian.
“That covers the basics,” Silk replied. “I can coach him on the finer details as we go along.”
“All right, then.” The old man looked around at them. “We’re likely to encounter people out there. Some of them might be hostile, but most of them will probably just be trying to stay out of harm’s way, so they won’t bother a group of ordinary travelers,” He looked directly at Zakath. “Silk should be able to talk us out of most situations, but if we get into any serious confrontations, I want you to fall back a bit and let the rest of us handle things. You’re out of practice with your weapons, and I didn’t go to all the trouble of finding you to lose you in some meaningless skirmish.”
“I can still carry my own weight, Belgarath.”
“I’m sure you can, but let’s not risk it right at first. Cyradis might be very unhappy if we don’t have you with us in one piece when we get to Kell.”
Zakath shrugged, walked over, and sat on the bench beside Garion. The Rivan King was dressed in his mail shirt and he was sliding the snug-fitting leather sleeve over the hilt of Iron-grip’s sword. Zakath was actually grinning, and the unaccustomed expression made him look ten years younger. Garion was uncomfortably reminded of Lelldorin. **I think you’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked.
“For some reason, I feel almost like a young man again,” Zakath replied. “Is it always like this—subterfuge and a little danger and this wild sense of exhilaration?”
“More or less,” Garion replied. “Sometimes there’s more than just a little danger, though.”
“I can live with that. My life’s been tediously secure so far.”
“Even when Naradas poisoned you back in Cthol Murgos?”
“I was too sick to know what was going on,” Zakath said. “I envy you, Garion. You’ve had a wildly exciting life.” He frowned slightly. “Something rather peculiar is happening to me,” he confessed. “Ever since I agreed to meet Cyradis at Kell, I’ve felt as if some vast weight had been lifted off me. The whole world looks fresh and new BOW. I have absolutely no control over my life, and yet I’m as happy as a fish in deep water. It’s irrational, but I can’t help it.”
Garion looked rather closely at him. “Don’t misunderstand,” he said. “I’m not deliberately trying to be mystical about this, but you’re probably happy because you’re doing what you’re supposed to do. It happens to all of us. It’s a part of that different way of looking at things Aunt Pol mentioned earlier, and it’s one of the rewards she talked about.”
“That’s a little obscure for me,” Zakath admitted.
“Give it some time,” Garion told him. “It comes to you gradually.”
General Atesca entered the tent with Brador close behind him. “The horses are ready, your Majesty,” he reported in a neutral tone. Garion could tell by Atesca’s expression that he still strongly disapproved of this whole business. The General turned to Durnik. “I’ve added a few more pack animals, Goodman,” he said. “Yours were fairly well loaded down.”
“Thank you, General,” Durnik replied.
“I’m going to be out of touch, Atesca/’ Zakath said, “so I’m leaving you in charge here. I’ll try to get word to you from time to time, but there may be long periods when you won’t hear from me.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” Atesca replied.
“You know what to do, though. Let Brador handle civil matters, and you deal with the military situation. Get the troops back here to this enclave as soon as Urvon and the Darshivans are engaged. And keep in touch with Mal Zeth.” He tugged a large signet ring off his finger. “Use this if you need to seal any official documents.”
“Such documents require your Majesty’s signature,” Atesca reminded him.
“Brador can forge it. He writes my name better than I do myself-”
“Your Majesty!” Brador protested.
“Don’t play innocent with me, Brador. I’ve known about your experiments in penmanship. Take care of my cat while I’m gone, and see if you can find homes for the rest of those kittens.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Anything else that needs my attention before I leave?”
“Ah—one thing, your Majesty,” Atesca said. “A disciplinary matter.”
“Can’t you take care of it?” Zakath asked a bit irritably. He was obviously impatient to be off.
“I can, your Majesty,” Atesca said, “but you’ve sort of placed the man under your personal protection, so I thought I’d consult with you before I took action.”
“Whom am I protecting?” Zakath looked puzzled.
“It’s a corporal from the Mal Zeth garrison, your Majesty—a man named Actas. He was drunk on duty.”
“Actas? I don’t recall—”