“He seems to have some reservations,” Silk suggested dryly. “Perhaps he has some lingering and deep-seated doubts about his own purity. That’s a serious failing in a priest, I’d say.”
Elvar looked at the little man helplessly, his hands still held aloft.
“You should never ask for something you’re not prepared to accept, Elvar,” Polgara suggested.
“Lady Polgara,” Elvar blurted, “we thought that you’d be so busy caring for your father that ” He faltered.
“-That you could take possession of the Orb before I knew about it? Think again, Elvar. I won’t allow the Orb to fall into the hands of the Bear-cult.” She smiled rather sweetly at him. “Unless you happen to be the one destined to wield it, of course. My father and I would both be overjoyed to hand the burden over to someone else. Why don’t we find out? All you have to do is reach out your hand and take the Orb.”
Elvar’s face blanched, and he backed away from Errand fearfully.
“I believe that will be all, Elvar,” King Cho-Hag said firmly.
The priest looked about helplessly, then turned and quickly left the hall with his cultists close behind him.
“Make him put it away, Durnik,” Polgara told the smith. “And see if you can do something about the knots.”
“I could seal them up with lead,” Durnik mused. “Maybe that would keep him from getting it open.”
“It might be worth a try.” Then she looked around. “I thought you might all like to know that my father’s awake,” she told him. “The old fool appears to be stronger than we thought.”
Garion, immediately alert, looked at her sharply, trying to detect some hint that she might not be telling them everything, but her calm face was totally unreadable.
Barak, laughing loudly with relief, slapped Hettar on the back. “I told you he’d be all right,” he exclaimed delightedly. The others in the room were already crowding around Polgara, asking for details.
“He’s awake,” she told them. “That’s about all I can say at the moment – except that he’s his usual charming self. He’s already complaining about lumps in the bed and demanding strong ale.”
“I’ll send some at once,” Queen Silar said.
“No, Silar,” Polgara replied firmly. “He gets broth, not ale.”
“He won’t like that much,” Silk suggested.
“Isn’t that a shame?” She smiled. She half turned, as if about to go back to the sickroom, then stopped and looked rather quizzically at Garion who sat, relieved, but still apprehensive about Belgarath’s true condition, beside Adara. “I see that you’ve met your cousin,” she observed.
“Who?”
“Don’t sit there with your mouth open, Garion,” she advised him. “It makes you look like an idiot. Adara’s the youngest daughter of your mother’s sister. Haven’t I ever told you about her?”
It all came crashing in on him. “Aunt Pol!” he protested. “How could you forget something that important?”
But Adara, obviously as startled by the announcement as he had been, gave a low cry, put her arms about his neck and kissed him warmly. “Dear cousin!” she exclaimed.
Garion flushed, then went pale, then flushed again. He stared first at Aunt Pol, then at his cousin, unable to speak or even to think coherently.
Chapter Seven
IN THE DAYS that followed while the others rested and Aunt Pol nursed Belgarath back to health, Garion and his cousin spent every waking moment together. From the time he had been a very small child he had believed that Aunt Pol was his only family. Later, he had discovered that Mister Wolf-Belgarath – was also a relative, though infinitely far removed. But Adara was different. She was nearly his own age, for one thing, and she seemed immediately to fill that void that had always been there. She became at once all those sisters and cousins and younger aunts that others seemed to have but that he did not.
She showed him the Algar Stronghold from top to bottom. As they wandered together down long, empty corridors, they frequently held each others’ hands. Most of the time, however, they talked. They sat together in out-of the-way places with their heads close together, talking, laughing, exchanging confidences and opening their hearts to each other. Garion discovered a hunger for talk in himself that he had not suspected. The circumstances of the past year had made him reticent, and now all that flood of words broke loose. Because he loved his tall, beautiful cousin, he told her things he would not have told any other living soul.
Adara responded to his affection with a love of her own that seemed as deep, and she listened to his outpourings with an attention that made him reveal himself even more.
“Can you really do that?” she asked when, one bright winter afternoon, they sat together in an embrasure high up in the fortress wall with a window behind them overlooking the vast sea of winter-brown grass stretching to the horizon. “Are you really a sorcerer?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied.
“Afraid?”
“There are some pretty awful things involved in it, Adara. At first I didn’t want to believe it, but things kept happening because I wanted them to happen, It finally reached the point where I couldn’t doubt it any more.”
“Show me,” she urged him.
He looked around a bit nervously. “I don’t really think I should,” he apologized. “It makes a certain kind of noise, you see, and Aunt Pol can hear it. For some reason I don’t think she’d approve if I just did it to show off.”
“You’re not afraid of her, are you?”
“It’s not exactly that. I just don’t want her to be disappointed in me.” He considered that. “Let me see if I can explain. We had an awful argument once – in Nyissa. I said some things I didn’t really mean, and she told me exactly what she’d gone through for me.” He looked somberly out of the window, remembering Aunt Pol’s words on the steamy deck of Greldik’s ship. “She’s devoted a thousand years to me, Adara – to my family actually, but finally all because of me. She’s given up every single thing that’s ever been important to her for me. Can you imagine the kind of obligation that puts on me? I’ll do anything she wants me to, and I’d cut off my arm before I’d ever hurt her again.”
“You love her very much, don’t you, Garion?”
“It goes beyond that. I don’t think there’s even been a word invented yet to describe what exists between us.”
Wordlessly Adara took his hand, her eyes warm with a wondering affection.
Later that afternoon, Garion went alone to the room where Aunt Pol was caring for her recalcitrant patient. After the first few days of bed rest, Belgarath had steadily grown more testy about his enforced confinement. Traces of that irritability lingered on his face even as he dozed, propped up by many pillows in his canopied bed. Aunt Pol, wearing her familiar gray dress, sat nearby, her needle busy as she altered one of Garion’s old tunics for Errand. The little boy, sitting not far away, watched her with that serious expression that always seemed to make him look older than he really was.
“How is he?” Garion asked softly, looking at his sleeping grandfather.
“Improving,” Aunt Pol replied, setting aside the tunic. “His temper’s getting worse, and that’s always a good sign.”
“Are there any hints that he might be getting back his-? Well, you know.” Garion gestured vaguely.
“No,” she replied. “Nothing yet. It’s probably too early.”
“Will you two stop that whispering?” Belgarath demanded without opening his eyes. “How can I possibly sleep with all that going on?”
“You were the one who said he didn’t want to sleep,” Polgara reminded him.
“That was before,” he snapped, his eyes popping open. He looked at Garion. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Garion’s been getting acquainted with his cousin Adara,” Aunt Pol explained.
“He could stop by to visit me once in a while,” the old man complained.
“There’s not much entertainment in listening to you snore, father.”
“I do not snore, Polgara.”
“Whatever you say, father,” she agreed placidly.
“Don’t patronize me, Pol!”
“Of course not, father. Now, how would you like a nice hot cup of broth?”
“I would not like a nice hot cup of broth. I want meat – rare, red meat – and a cup of strong ale.”
“But you won’t get meat and ale, father. You’ll get what I decide to give you-and right now it’s broth and milk.”
“Milk?”
“Would you prefer gruel?”
The old man glared indignantly at her, and Garion quietly left the room.
After that, Belgarath’s recovery was steady. A few days later he was out of bed, though Polgara raised some apparently strenuous objections. Garion knew them both well enough to see directly to the core of his Aunt’s behavior. Prolonged bed rest had never been her favorite form of therapy. She had always wanted her patients ambulatory as soon as possible. By seeming to want to coddle her irascible father, she had quite literally forced him out of bed. Even beyond that, the precisely calibrated restrictions she imposed on his movements were deliberately designed to anger him, to goad his mind to activity – never anything more than he could handle at any given time, but always just enough to force his mental recovery to keep pace with his physical recuperation. Her careful manipulation of the old man’s convalescence stepped beyond the mere practice of medicine into the realm of art.