“Fulrach, King of Sendaria!” one of the warriors who had escorted them boomed, striking the butt of his spear hollowly on the rush-strewn stone floor.
“Hail, Fulrach,” a large, black-bearded man on one of the thrones called, rising to his feet. His long blue robe was wrinkled and spotted, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt. The gold crown he wore was dented in a place or two, and one of its points had been broken off
“Hail, Anheg,” the King of the Sendars replied, bowing slightly. “Thy throne awaits thee, my dear Fulrach,” the shaggy-haired man said, indicating the banner of Sendaria behind the one vacant throne. “The Kings of Aloria welcome the wisdom of the King of Sendaria at this council.”
Garion found the stilted, archaic form of address strangely impressive.
“Which king is which, friend Silk?” Durnik whispered as they approached the thrones.
“The fat one in the red robe with the reindeer on his banner is my uncle, Rhodar of Drasnia. The lean-faced one in black under the horse banner is Cho-Hag of Algaria. The big, grim-faced one in gray with no crown who sits beneath the sword banner is Brand, the Rivan Warder.”
“Brand?” Garion interrupted, startled as he remembered the stories of the Battle of Vo Mimbre.
“All Rivan Warders are named Brand,” Silk explained.
King Fulrach greeted each of the other kings in the formal language that seemed to be customary, and then he took his place beneath the green banner with its golden sheaf of wheat that was the emblem of Sendaria.
“Hail Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur,” Anheg said, “and hail Lady Polgara, honored daughter of immortal Belgarath.”
“There’s little time for all this ceremony, Anheg,” Mister Wolf said tartly, throwing back his cloak and striding forward. “Why have the Kings of Aloria summoned me?”
“Permit us our little ceremonies, Ancient One,” Rhodar, the grossly fat King of Drasnia said slyly. “We so seldom have the chance to play king. We won’t be much longer at it.”
Mister Wolf shook his head in disgust.
One of the three regal-looking women came forward then. She was a tall, raven-haired beauty in an elaborately cross-tied black velvet gown. She curtsied to King Fulrach and touched her cheek briefly to his. “Your Majesty,” she said, “your presence honors our home.”
“Your Highness,” Fulrach replied, inclining his head respectfully.
“Queen Islena,” Silk murmured to Durnik and Garion, “Anheg’s wife.” The little man’s nose twitched with suppressed mirth. “Watch her when she greets Polgara.”
The queen turned and curtsied deeply to Mister Wolf. “Divine Belgarath,” she said, her rich voice throbbing with respect.
“Hardly divine, Islena,” the old man said dryly.
“Immortal son of Aldur,” she swept on, ignoring the interruption, “mightiest sorcerer in all the world. My poor house trembles at the awesome power you bring within its walls.”
“A pretty speech, Islena,” Wolf said. “A little inaccurate, but pretty all the same.”
But the queen had already turned to Aunt Pol. “Glorious sister,” she intoned.
“Sister?” Garion was startled.
“She’s a mystic,” Silk said softly. “She dabbles a bit in magic and thinks of herself as a sorceress. Watch.”
With an elaborate gesture the queen produced a green jewel and presented it to Aunt Pol.
“She had it up her sleeve,” Silk whispered gleefully.
“A royal gift, Islena,” Aunt Pol said in a strange voice. “A pity that I can only offer this in return.” She handed the queen a single deep red rose.
“Where did she get that?” Garion asked in amazement. Silk winked at him.
The queen looked at the rose doubtfully and cupped it between her two hands. She examined it closely, and her eyes widened. The color drained out of her face, and her hands began to tremble.
The second queen had stepped forward. She was a tiny blonde with a beautiful smile. Without ceremony she kissed King Fulrach and then Mister Wolf and embraced Aunt Pol warmly. Her affection seemed simple and unselfconscious.
“Porenn, Queen of Drasnia,” Silk said, and his voice had an odd note to it. Garion glanced at him and saw the faintest hint of a bitter, self mocking expression flicker across his face. In that single instant, as clearly as if it had suddenly been illuminated by a bright light, Garion saw the reason for Silk’s sometimes strange manner. An almost suffocating surge of sympathy welled up in his throat.
The third queen, Silar of Algaria, greeted King Fulrach, Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol with a few brief words in a quiet voice.
“Is the Rivan Warder unmarried?” Durnik asked, looking around for another queen.
“He had a wife,” Silk said shortly, his eyes still on Queen Porenn, “but she died some years ago. She left him four sons.”
“Ah,” Durnik said.
Then Barak, grim-faced and obviously angry, entered the hall and strode to King Anheg’s throne.
“Welcome home, cousin,” King Anheg said. “I thought perhaps you’d lost your way.”
“Family business, Anheg,” Barak said. “I had to have a few words with my wife.”
“I see,” Anheg said and let it drop.
“Have you met our friends?” Barak asked.
“Not as yet, Lord Barak,” King Rhodar said. “We were involved with the customary formalities.” He chuckled, and his great paunch jiggled. “I’m sure you all know the Earl of Seline,” Barak said, “and this is Durnik, a smith and a brave man. The boy’s name is Garion. He’s in Lady Polgara’s care – a good lad.”
“Do you suppose we could get on with this?” Mister Wolf asked impatiently.
Cho-Hag, King of the Algars, spoke in a strangely soft voice. “Are thou aware, Belgarath, of the misfortune which hath befallen us? We turn to thee for counsel.”
“Cho-Hag,” Wolf said testily, “you sound like a bad Arendish epic. Is all this theeing and thouing really necessary?”
Cho-Hag looked embarrassed and glanced at King Anheg.
“My fault, Belgarath,” Anheg said ruefully. “I set scribes to work to record our meetings. Cho-Hag was speaking to history as well as to you.” His crown had slipped a bit and perched precariously over one ear.
“History’s very tolerant, Anheg,” Wolf said. “You don’t have to try to impress her. She’ll forget most of what we say anyway.” He turned to the Rivan Warder. “Brand,” he said, “do you suppose you could explain all this without too much embellishment?”
“I’m afraid it’s my fault, Belgarath,” the gray-robed Warder said in a deep voice. “The Apostate was able to carry off his theft because of my laxity.”
“The thing’s supposed to protect itself, Brand,” Wolf told him. “You can’t even touch it. I know the thief, and there’s no way you could have kept him out of Riva. What concerns me is how he was able to lay hands on it without being destroyed by its power.”
Brand spread his hands helplessly. “We woke one morning, and it was gone. The priests were only able to divine the name of the thief. The Spirit of the Bear-God wouldn’t say any more. Since we knew who he was, we were careful not to speak his name or the name of the thing he took.”
“Good,” Wolf said. “He has ways to pick words out of the air at great distances. I taught him how to do that myself.”
Brand nodded. “We knew that,” he said. “It made phrasing our message to you difficult. When you didn’t come to Riva and my messenger didn’t return, I thought something had gone wrong. That’s when we sent men out to find you.”
Mister Wolf scratched at his beard. “I guess it’s my own fault that I’m here then,” he said. “I borrowed your messenger. I had to get word to some people in Arendia. I suppose I should have known better.”
Silk cleared his throat. “May I speak?” he asked politely.
“Certainly, Prince Kheldar,” King Anheg said.
“Is it entirely prudent to continue these discussions in public?” Silk asked. “The Murgos have enough gold to buy ears in many places, and the arts of the Grolims can lift the thoughts out of the minds of the most loyal warriors. What isn’t known can’t be revealed, if you take my meaning.”
“The warriors of Anheg aren’t so easily bought, Silk,” Barak said testily, “and there aren’t any Grolims in Cherek.”
“Are you also confident about the serving men and the kitchen wenches?” Silk suggested. “And I’ve found Grolims in some very unexpected places.”
“There’s something in what my nephew says,” King Rhodar said, his face thoughtful. “Drasnia has centuries of experience in the gathering of information, and Kheldar is one of our best. If he thinks that our words might go further than we’d want them to, we might be wise to listen to him.”
“Thank you, uncle,” Silk said, bowing.
“Could you penetrate this palace, Prince Kheldar?” King Anheg challenged.
“I already have, your Majesty,” Silk said modestly, “a dozen times or more.”
Anheg looked at Rhodar with one raised eyebrow.
Rhodar coughed slightly. “It was some time ago, Anheg. Nothing serious. I was just curious about something, that’s all.”