“It’s probably not a bad idea,” Silk agreed. “Though I can’t really say for sure. My brain isn’t working too well just now. It will have to be today, of course. Your coronation’s scheduled for tomorrow, and your movements are likely to be restricted after they’ve put the crown on your head.”
Garion didn’t want to think about that.
“I hope the two of you don’t mind if I take a little while to pull myself together first, though,” Silk added, drinking from the tankard again. “Actually it doesn’t really matter if you mind or not. It’s a question of necessity.”
It took the rat-faced little man only about an hour to recuperate. His remedies were brutally direct. He soaked up hot steam and cold ale in approximately equal amounts, then emerged from the steamroom to plunge directly into a pool of icy water. He was blue and shaking when he came out, but the worst of his indisposition seemed to be gone. He carefully selected nondescript clothes for the three of them, then led the way out of the Citadel by way of a side gate. As they left, Garion glanced back several times, but he seemed to have shaken off the persistent attendant who had been following him all morning.
As they wandered down into the city, Garion was struck again by the bleak severity of the place. The outsides of the houses were uniformly gray and totally lacking any form of exterior decoration. They were solid, square, and absolutely colorless. The gray cloak which was the outstanding feature of the Rivan national costume gave the people in the narrow streets an appearance of that same grimness. Garion quailed a bit at the thought of spending the rest of his life in so uninviting a place.
They walked down a long street in pale winter sunshine with the salt smell of the harbor strong in their nostrils and passed a house from which came the sound of children singing. Their voices were very clear and merged together in subtle harmonies. Garion was astonished at the complexity of the children’s song.
“A national pastime,” Silk said. “Rivans are very much involved in music. I suppose it helps relieve the boredom. I’d hate to offend your Majesty, but your kingdom’s a tedious sort of place.” He looked around. “I have an old friend who lives not far from here. Why don’t we pay him a visit?”
He led them down a long stairway to the street below. Not far up that street a large building stood solidly on the downhill side. Silk strode up to the door and knocked. After a moment, a Rivan in a burn-spotted leather smock answered. “Radek, old friend,” he said with a certain surprise. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Torgan.” Silk grinned at him. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing.”
“Come in, come in,” Torgan said, opening the door wider.
“You’ve expanded things a bit, I see,” Silk noticed, looking around.
“The market’s been good to me,” Torgan replied modestly. “The perfume makers in Tol Borune are buying just about any kind of bottle they can get.” The Rivan was a solid-looking man with iron-gray hair and strangely rounded and rosy cheeks. He glanced curiously at Garion and frowned slightly as if trying to remember something. Garion turned to examine a row of delicate little glass bottles standing neatly on a nearby table, trying to keep his face turned away.
“You’re concentrating on bottle making then?” Silk asked.
“Oh, we still try to turn out a few good pieces,” Torgan replied a bit ruefully. “I’ve got an apprentice who’s an absolute genius. I have to let him spend a certain amount of time on his own work. I’m afraid that if I kept him blowing bottles all day, he’d leave me.” The glassmaker opened a cabinet and carefully took out a small velvet-wrapped bundle. “This is a piece of his work,” he said, folding back the cloth.
It was a crystal wren, wings half spread, and it was perched on a leafy twig with buds at its tip. The entire piece was so detailed that even the individual feathers were clearly visible. “Amazing,” Silk gasped, examining the glass bird. “This is exquisite, Torgan. How did he get the colors so perfect?”
“I have no idea,” Torgan admitted. “He doesn’t even measure when he mixes, and the colors always come out exactly right. As I said, he’s a genius.” He carefully rewrapped the crystal bird and placed it back in the cabinet.
There were living quarters behind the workshop, and the rooms were filled with warmth and affection and vibrant colors. Brightly colored cushions were everywhere, and paintings hung on the walls in every room. Torgan’s apprentices seemed to be not so much workers as members of his family, and his eldest daughter played for them as they concentrated on the molten glass, her fingers touching the strings of her harp in cascading waterfalls of music.
“It’s so unlike the outside,” Lelldorin observed, his face puzzled.
“What’s that?” Silk asked him.
“The outside is so grim – so stiff and gray – but once you come inside the building, it’s all warmth and color.”
Torgan smiled. “It’s something outsiders don’t expect,” he agreed.
“Our houses are very much like ourselves. Out of necessity, the outside is bleak. The city of Riva was built to defend the Orb, and every house is part of the overall fortifications. We can’t change the outside, but inside we have art and poetry and music. We ourselves wear the gray cloak. It’s a useful garment – woven from the wool of goats – light, warm, nearly waterproof – but it won’t accept dye, so it’s always gray. But even though we’re gray on the outside, that doesn’t mean that we have no love of beauty.”
The more Garion thought about that, the more he began to understand these bleak-appearing islanders. The stiff reserve of the graycloaked Rivans was a face they presented to the world. Behind that face, however, was an altogether different kind of people.
The apprentices for the most part were blowing the delicate little bottles that were the major item in the trade with the perfume makers of Tol Borune. One apprentice, however, worked alone, fashioning a glass ship cresting a crystal wave. He was a sandy-haired young man with an intent expression. When he looked up from his work and saw Garion, his eyes widened, but he lowered his head quickly to his work again.
Back at the front of the shop as they were preparing to leave, Garion asked to look once more at the delicate glass bird perched on its gleaming twig. The piece was so beautiful that it made his heart ache.
“Does it please your Majesty?” It was the young apprentice, who had quietly entered from the workroom. He spoke softly. “I was in the square yesterday when Brand introduced you to the people,” he explained. “I recognized you as soon as I saw you.”
“What’s your name?” Garion asked curiously.
“Joran, your Majesty,” the apprentice replied.
“Do you suppose we could skip the ‘Majesties’?” Garion said rather plaintively. “I’m not really comfortable with that sort of thing yet. The whole business came as a complete surprise to me.”
Joran grinned at him. “There are all kinds of rumors in the city. They say you were raised by Belgarath the Sorcerer in his tower in the Vale of Aldur.”
“Actually I was raised in Sendaria by my Aunt Pol, Belgarath’s daughter.”
“Polgara the Sorceress?” Joran looked impressed. “Is she as beautiful as men say she is?”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“Can she really turn herself into a dragon?”
“I suppose she could if she wanted to,” Garion admitted, “but she prefers the shape of an owl. She loves birds for some reason – and birds go wild at the sight of her. They talk to her all the time.”
“What an amazing thing,” Joran marvelled. “I’d give anything to be able to meet her.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully, hesitating a moment. “Do you think she’d like this little thing?” he blurted finally, touching the crystal wren.
“Like it?” Garion said. “She’d love it.”
“Would you give it to her for me?”
“Joran!” Garion was startled at the idea. “I couldn’t take it. It’s too valuable, and I don’t have any money to pay you for it.”
Joran smiled shyly. “It’s only glass,” he pointed out, “and glass is only melted sand-and sand’s the cheapest thing in the world. If you think she’d like it, I’d really like for her to have it. Would you take it to her for me – please? Tell her it’s a gift from Joran the glassmaker.”
“I will, Joran,” Garion promised, impulsively clasping the young man’s hand. “I’ll be proud to carry it to her for you.”
“I’ll wrap it,” Joran said then. “It’s not good for glass to go out in the cold from a warm room.” He reached for the piece of velvet, then stopped. “I’m not being entirely honest with you,” he admitted, looking a bit guilty. “The wren’s a very good piece, and if the nobles up at the Citadel see it, they might want me to make other things for them. I need a few commissions if I’m ever going to open my own shop, and-” He glanced once at Torgan’s daughter, his heart in his eyes.