“Trust a Tolnedran to be devious,” Anheg growled.
“Do you like freezing, Anheg?” Varana asked.
Anheg shrugged. “It’s something to do in the wintertime,” he said.
Varana rolled his eyes ceilingward. “Alorns,” he said.
“All right,” Anheg said by way of apology. “I was only joking. What’s this brilliantly devious plan of yours?”
Varana looked across the room at Javelin. “How good is the Mallorean intelligence service, Margrave Khendon?” he asked bluntly.
Javelin rose to his feet, straightening his pearl-gray doublet. “By himself, Brador is very good, your Imperial Majesty,” he replied. “His people are sometimes awkward and obvious, but he has a lot of them. He has unlimited money to work with.” He cast a slightly reproachful glance at Queen Porenn.
“Be nice, Khendon,” she murmured. “I’m on a tight budget.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed with a faint smile, then straightened and spoke in a crisp, businesslike manner. “Mallorean intelligence is crude by our standards, but Brador has the resources to put as many agents in the field as he needs. Neither Drasnian nor Tolnedran intelligence has that luxury. Brador sometimes loses a hundred people in the process, but he can usually get the information.” He sniffed disdainfully. “I prefer a neater type of operation, personally.”
“Then this Brador has operatives in Rak Urga?” Varana pressed.
“Almost certainly,” Javelin replied. “I have four in the Drojim Palace at this time myself—and your Majesty’s service has two that I know of.”
“I didn’t know that,” Varana said with an innocent look.
“Really?”
Varana laughed. “All right,” he went on, “what would Zakath do if word reached Mat Zeth that the Kingdoms of the West were about to conclude a military alliance with the King of Murgodom?”
Javelin began to pace up and down. “It’s very hard to know exactly what Zakath will do in any given situation,” he mused. “A lot depends on just how serious his domestic problems are, but an alliance between the Murgos and the West would pose a major threat to Mallorea. He’d almost have to come back immediately and make an all-out effort to crush the Murgos before our troops could reinforce them.”
“Ally ourselves with the Murgos?” Hettar exclaimed. “Never!”
“Nobody’s suggesting a real alliance, my Lord Hettar,” Kail, the son of the Rivan Warder, told him, “All we want to do is distract Zakath for long enough to give Belgarion the time to slip past him. The negotiations can drag on and then fall apart later on.”
“Oh,” Hettar said, looking a bit abashed, “that’s different, then—I suppose.”
“All right,” Varana went on crisply. “Perhaps we can persuade Zakath that we’re about to conclude an alliance with Urgit—if we do it right. Javelin, have your people kill a few Mallorean agents in the Drojim Palace—not all of them, mind you—just enough to convince Mal Zeth that this is a serious diplomatic effort.”
“I understand perfectly, your Majesty.” Javelin smiled. “I have just the man—a recently recruited Nyissan assassin named Issus.”
“Good. A possible alliance will serve the same purpose as a real one. We can distract Zakath without the loss of a single man—unless we count this Issus fellow.”
“Don’t worry about Issus, your Majesty,” Javelin assured him. “He’s a survivor.”
“I think we’re missing something,” Anheg growled. “I wish Rhodar were here.”
“Yes,” Porenn agreed in a voice near to tears.
“Sorry, Porenn,” Anheg said, engulfing her tiny hand in his huge one, “but you know what I mean.”
“I have a diplomat in Rak Urga,” Varana continued. “He can make the overtures to King Urgit. Do we know anything useful about the King of the Murgos?”
“Yes,” Porenn said firmly. “He’ll be amenable to the suggestion.”
“How do you know, your Majesty?”
Porenn hesitated. “I’d rather not say,” she said with a quick glance at Javelin. “Just take my word for it.”
“Of course,” Varana agreed.
Vella rose and walked to the window, her satin gown filling the room with its music. “You people of the West always want to complicate things,” she said critically. “Zakath’s your problem. Send somebody to Mal Zeth with a sharp knife.”
“You should have been a man, Vella.” Anheg laughed.
She turned and looked at him with smoldering eyes. “Do you really think so?” she asked.
“Well,” he hesitated, “maybe not.”
She leaned disconsolately against the window casing. “I wish I had my juggler here to entertain me,” she said. “Politics always give me a headache.” She sighed. “I wonder whatever happened to him.”
Porenn smiled, watching the girl intently and remembering the sudden insight she had when the Nadrak girl first arrived in Boktor. “Would you be terribly disappointed to find out that your juggler was not who he seemed to be?” she asked. “Belgarath mentioned him in his letter.”
Vella looked at her sharply.
“Belgarath would have known him, of course,” Porenn went on. “It was Beldin.”
Vella’s eyes went wide. “The hunchbacked sorcerer?” she exclaimed. “The one who can fly?”
Porenn nodded.
Vella said a number of things that no genteel lady would have said. Even King Anheg turned slightly pale at her choice of language. Then she drew a dagger and advanced on Yarblek, her breath hissing between her teeth. Mandorallen, clad all in steel, stepped in front of her, and Hettar and Barak seized her from behind and wrested the knife from her grasp.
“You idiot!” she shrieked at the cringing Yarblek. “You absolute idiot! You could have sold me to him!” Then she collapsed weeping against Barak’s fur-clad chest, even as Hettar prudently relieved her of her other three daggers.
Zandramas, the Child of Dark, stood gazing across a desolate valley where shattered villages smoked and smoldered under a lead-gray sky. The eyes of the Child of Dark were hooded, and she looked unseeing at the devastation spread before her. A lusty wail came from behind her, and she set her teeth together. “Feed him,” she said shortly.
“As you command, mistress,” the man with white eyes said quickly in a mollifying tone.
“Don’t patronize me, Naradas,” she snapped. “Just shut the brat up. I’m trying to think.”
It had been a long time. Zandramas had worked everything out so very carefully. Now she had come half around the world, and, despite her best efforts, the Godslayer with his dreadful sword was but a few days behind her.
The sword. The flaming sword. It filled her sleep with nightmares—and the burning face of the Child of Light terrified her even more. “How does he stay so close behind?” she exploded. “Will nothing slow him?”
She thrust her hands out in front of her and turned them palms-up. A myriad of tiny points of light seemed to swirl beneath the skin of her hands—swirling, glittering like a constellation of minuscule stars spinning in her very flesh. How long would it be until those constellations invaded her entire body and she ceased even to be human? How long until the dreadful spirit of the Child of Dark possessed her utterly? The child wailed again.
“I told you to shut him up!” she half shouted.
“At once, mistress,” Naradas said.
The Child of Dark went back to the contemplation of the starry universe enclosed in her flesh.
Eriond and Horse rode out at the first light before the others had awakened, cantering across a mountain meadow in the silvery dawn-light. It was good to ride alone, to feel the surge and flow of Horse’s muscles under him and the wind against his face without the distraction of talk.
He reined in atop a knoll to watch the sun rise, and that was good, too. He looked out over the sun-touched mountains of Zamad, drinking in the beauty and solitude, then gazed at the fair sight of the bright green fields and forests. Life was good here. The world was filled with loveliness and with people he loved.
How could Aldur have forced Himself to leave all this? Aldur had been the God who must have loved this world above all things, since He had refused to take a people to worship Him, but had chosen to spend His time alone to study this fair world. And now He could only visit occasionally in spiritual form.
But Aldur had accepted the sacrifice. Eriond sighed, feeling that perhaps no sacrifice could be truly unbearable if it were made out of love. Eriond took comfort in that belief.
Then he sighed again and slowly rode back toward the little lake and the cluster of tents where the others slept.
CHAPTER TWO
They rose late that morning. The turmoil of the past several weeks seemed finally to have caught up with Garion, and, even though he could tell by the light streaming in through the front of the tent that the sun was already high, he was reluctant to move. He could hear the clinking of Polgara’s cooking utensils and the murmur of voices. He knew that he was going to have to get up soon anyway. He considered trying to doze off to catch a last few moments of sleep, but he decided against it. He moved carefully to avoid waking Ce’Nedra as he slid out from under their blankets. He leaned over and gently kissed her hair, then he pulled on his rust-colored tunic, picked up his boots and sword, and ducked out of the tent.