Olban fled sobbing.
"Very well done, Belgarion, " the dry voice complimented him.
"Oh, shut up," Garion said.
He slept very little that night. He had a few doubts about the wisdom of the course he had taken with Olban; but on the whole, he was satisfied that what he had done had been right. Olban's act had been no more than an impulsive attempt to erase what he believed to be his father's degradation. There had been no plot involved in it. Olban might resent Garion's magnanimous gesture, but he would not throw any more daggers at his king's back. What disturbed Garion's sleep the most during that restless night was Belgarath's bleak appraisal of the war upon which they were about to embark. He slept briefly on toward dawn and awoke from a dreadful nightmare with icy sweat standing out on his forehead. He had just seen himself, old and weary, leading a pitifully small army of ragged, gray-haired men into a battle they could not possibly win.
"There's an alternative, of course - if you've recovered enough from your bout of peevishness to listen," the voice in his mind advised him as he sat bolt upright and trembling in his bed.
"What?" Garion answered aloud. "Oh, that - I'm sorry I spoke that way. I was irritated, that's all."
"In many ways you're like Belgarath - remarkably - so his irritability seems to be hereditary."
"It's only natural, I suppose," Garion conceded. "You said there was an alternative. An alternative to what?"
"To this war that's giving you nightmares. Get dressed I want to show you something"
Garion climbed out of his bed and hastily jerked on his clothing. "Where are we going?" he asked, still speaking aloud.
"It isn't far,"
The room to which the other awareness directed him was musty and showed little evidence of use. The books and scrolls lining the shelves along its walls were dust-covered, and cobwebs draped the corners. Garion's lone candle cast looming shadows that seemed to dance along the walls.
"On the top shelf, " the voice told him. "The scroll wrapped in yellow linen. Take it down."
Garion climbed up on a chair and took down the scroll. "What is this?" he asked.
"The Mrin Codex, Take off the cover and start unrolling it. I'll tell you when to stop."
It took Garion a moment or two to get the knack of unrolling the bottom of the scroll with one hand and rolling up the top with the other.
"There," the voice said. "That's the passage. Read it."
Garion struggled over the words. The script was spidery, and he still did not read very well. "It doesn't make any sense," he complained.
"The man who wrote it down was insane, " the voice apologized, "and he was an imbecile besides, but he was all I had to work with. Try it again but loud"
Garion read: "Behold, it shall come to pass that in a certain moment, that which must be and that which must not be shall meet, and in that meeting shall be decided all that has gone before and all that will come after. Then will the Child of Light and the Child of Dark face each other in the broken tomb, and the stars will shudder and grow dim." Garion's voice trailed off. "It still doesn't make any sense," he objected.
"It's a bit obscure,"the voice admitted. "As I said, the man who wrote it was insane. I put the ideas there, but he used his own words to express them."
"Who is the Child of Light?" Garion asked.
"You are for the moment at least. It changes."
"Me?"
"Of course."
"Then who's this Child of Dark I'm supposed to meet?"
"Torak."
"Torak!"
"I should have thought that would be obvious by now. I told you once about the two possible destinies coming together finally. You and Torak - the Child of Light and the Child of Dark - embody those destinies."
"But Torak's asleep."
"Not any more. When you first put your hand on the Orb, the touch signalled his awakening. Even now he stirs on the edge of awareness, and his hand fumbles for the hilt of Cthrek-Goru, his black sword."
Garion went very cold. "Are you trying to say that I'm supposed to fight Torak? Alone?"
"It's going to happen, Belgarion. The universe itself rushes toward it. You can gather an army if you want, but your army - or Torak's - won't mean anything. As the Codex says, everything will be decided when you finally meet him. In the end, you'll face each other alone. That's what I meant by an alternative."
"What you're trying to say is that I'm just supposed to go off alone and find him and fight him?" Garion demanded incredulously.
"Approximately, yes."
"I won't do it."
"That's up to you."
Garion struggled with it. "If I take an army, I'll just get a lot of people killed, and it won't make any difference in the end anyway?"
"Not the least bit. In the end it will just be you, Torak, Cthrek-Goru, and the sword of the Rivan King."
"Don't I have any choice at all?"
"None whatsoever."
"Do I have to go alone?" Garion asked plaintively.
"It doesn't say that."
"Could I take one or two people with me?"
"That's your decision, Belgarion. Just don't forget to take your sword."
He thought about it for the rest of the day. In the end his choice was obvious. As evening settled over the gray city of Riva, he sent for Belgarath and Silk. There were some problems involved, he knew, but there was no one else he could rely on. Even if his power were diminished, Belgarath's wisdom made Garion not even want to consider the undertaking without him. And Silk, of course, was just as essential. Garion reasoned that his own increasing talent for sorcery could see them through any difficulties if Belgarath should falter, and Silk could probably find ways to avoid most of the serious confrontations. Garion was confident that the three of them would be able to cope with whatever arose - until they found Torak. He didn't want to think about what might happen then.
When the two of them arrived, the young king was staring out the window with haunted eyes.
"You sent for us?" Silk asked.
"I have to make a journey," Garion replied in a scarcely audible voice.
"What's bothering you?" Belgarath said. "You look a bit sick."
"I just found out what it is that I'm supposed to do, Grandfather."
"Who told you?"
"He did."
Belgarath pursed his lips. "A bit premature, perhaps," he suggested. "I was going to wait a while longer, but I have to assume he knows what he's doing."
"Who is this we're talking about?" Silk asked.
"Garion has a periodic visitor," the old man answered. "A rather special visitor."
"That's a singularly unenlightening response, old friend."
"Are you sure you really want to know?"
"Yes," Silk replied, "I think I do. I get the feeling that I'm going to be involved in it."
"You're aware of the Prophecy?"
"Naturally."
"It appears that the Prophecy is a bit more than a statement about the future. It seems to be able to take a hand in things from time to time. It speaks to Garion on occasion."
Silk's eyes narrowed as he thought about that. "All right," he said finally.
"You don't seem surprised."
The rat-faced little man laughed. "Belgarath, nothing about this whole thing surprises me any more."
Belgarath turned back to Garion. "Exactly what did he tell you?"
"He showed me the Mrin Codex. Have you ever read it?"
"From end to end and backward and forward - even from side to side a couple of times. Which part did he show you?"
"The part about the meeting of the Child of Light and the Child of Dark."
"Oh," Belgarath said. "I was afraid it might have been that part. Did he explain it?"
Dumbly, Garion nodded.
"Well," the old man said with a penetrating look, "now you know the worst. What are you going to do about it?"
"He gave me a couple of alternatives," Garion said. "I can wait until w
e get an army together, and we can go off and fight back and forth with the Angaraks for generations. That's one way, isn't it?"
Belgarath nodded.
"Of course that will get millions of people killed for nothing, won't it?"
The old man nodded again.
Garion drew in a deep breath. "Or," he continued, "I can go off by myself and find Torak - wherever he is - and try to kill him."
Silk whistled, his eyes widening.
"He said that I didn't have to go alone," Garion added hopefully. "I asked him about that."
"Thanks," Belgarath said dryly.
Silk sprawled in a nearby chair, rubbing thoughtfully at his pointed nose. He looked at Belgarath. "You know that Polgara would skin the both of us inch by inch if we let him go off alone, don't you?"
Belgarath grunted.
"Where did you say Torak is?"
"Cthol Mishrak - in Mallorea."
"I've never been there."
"I have - a few times. It's not a very attractive place."
"Maybe time has improved it."
"That's not very likely."
Silk shrugged. "Maybe we ought to go with him - show him the way, that sort of thing. It's time I left Riva anyway. Some ugly rumors are starting to go around about me."
"It is rather a good time of year for travelling," Belgarath admitted, giving Garion a sly, sidelong glance.
Garion felt better already. He knew from their bantering tone that they had already made up their minds. He would not have to go in search of Torak alone. For now that was enough: there'd be time for worrying later. "All right," he said, "what do we do?"
"We creep out of Riva very quietly," Belgarath replied. "There's nothing to be gained by getting into any long discussions with your Aunt Pol about this."
"The wisdom of ages," Silk agreed fervently. "When do we start?" His ferret eyes were very bright.
"The sooner the better." Belgarath shrugged.
"Did you have any plans for tonight?"
"Nothing I can't postpone."
"All right then. We'll wait until everyone goes to bed, and then we'll pick up Garion's sword and get started."
"Which way do we go?" Garion asked him.
"Sendaria first," Belgarath replied, "and then across Drasnia to Gar og Nadrak. Then north to the archipelago that leads to Mallorea. It's a long way to Cthol Mishrak and the tomb of the one-eyed God."
"And then?"
"Then, Garion, we settle this once and for all."
Part Three
DRASNIA
Chapter Seventeen
"DEAR AUNT POL," Garion's note began, "I know this is going to make you angry, but there's no other way. I've seen the Mrin Codex, and now I know what I have to do. The-" He broke off, frowning. "How do you spell 'Prophecy'?" he asked.
Belgarath spelled it out for him. "Don't drag it out too much, Garion," the old man advised. "Nothing you say is going to make her happy about this, so stick to the point."
"Don't you think I ought to explain why we're doing this?" Garion fretted.
"She's read the Codex, Garion," Belgarath replied. "She'll know why without your explanation."
"I really ought to leave a note for Ce'Nedra, too," Garion considered.
"Polgara can tell her what she needs to know," Belgarath said. "We have things to do and we can't afford to spend the whole night on correspondence."
"I've never written a letter before," Garion remarked. "It's not nearly as easy as it looks."
"Just say what you have to say and then stop," the old man advised. "Don't labor at it so much."
The door opened and Silk came back in. He was dressed in the nondescript clothing he had worn on the road, and he carried two bundles.
"I think these should fit you," he said, handing one of the bundles to Belgarath and the other to Garion.
"Did you get the money?" the old man asked him.
"I borrowed some from Barak."
"That's surprising," Belgarath replied. "He isn't notorious for generosity."
"I didn't tell him I was borrowing it," the little man returned with a broad wink. "I thought it would save time if I didn't have to go into long explanations."
One of Belgarath's eyebrows shot up.
"We are in a hurry, aren't we?" Silk asked with an innocent expression. "And Barak can be tedious when it comes to money."
"Spare me the excuses," Belgarath told him. He turned back to Garion. "Have you finished with that yet?"
"What do you think?" Garion asked, handing him the note.
The old man glanced at it. "Good enough," he said. "Now sign it and we'll put it where somebody'll find it sometime tomorrow."
"Late tomorrow," Silk suggested. "I'd like to be well out of Polgara's range when she finds out that we've left."
Garion signed the note, folded it and wrote, "For Lady Polgara," across the outside.
"We'll leave it on the throne," Belgarath said. "Let's change clothes and go get the sword."
"Isn't the sword going to be a bit bulky?" Silk asked after Garion and Belgarath had changed.
"There's a scabbard for it in one of the antechambers," Belgarath answered opening the door carefully and peering out into the silent hall. "He'll have to wear it slung across his back."
"That glow is going to be a bit ostentatious," Silk said.
"We'll cover the Orb," Belgarath replied. "Let's go."
The three of them slipped out into the dimly lighted corridor and crept through the midnight stillness toward the throne room. Once, a sleepy servant going toward the kitchen almost surprised them, but an empty chamber provided them with a temporary hiding place until he had passed. Then they moved on.
"Is it locked?" Silk whispered when they reached the door to the Hall of the Rivan King.
Garion took hold of the large handle and twisted, wincing as the latch clacked loudly in the midnight stillness. He pushed, and the door creaked as it swung open.
"You ought to have somebody take care of that," Silk muttered.
The Orb of Aldur began to glow faintly as soon as the three of them entered the Hall.
"It seems to recognize you," Silk observed to Garion.
When Garion took down the sword, the Orb flared, filling the Hall of the Rivan King with its deep blue radiance. Garion looked around nervously, fearful that someone passing might see the light and come in to investigate. "Stop that," he irrationally admonished the stone. With a startled flicker, the glow of the Orb subsided back into a faint, pulsating light, and the triumphant song of the Orb stilled to a murmur.
Belgarath looked quizzically at his grandson, but said nothing. He led them to an antechamber and removed a long, plain scabbard from a case standing against the wall. The belt attached to the scabbard had seen a certain amount of use. The old man buckled it in place for Garion, passing it over the young man's right shoulder and down across his chest so that the scabbard, attached to the belt in two places, rode diagonally down his back. There was also a knitted tube in the case, almost like a narrow sock. "Slide this over the hilt," Belgarath instructed.
Garion covered the hilt of his great sword with the tube and then took hold of the blade itself and carefully inserted the tip into the top of the scabbard. It was awkward, and neither Silk nor Belgarath offered to help him. All three of them knew why. The sword slid home and, since it seemed to have no weight, it was not too uncomfortable. The crosspiece of the hilt, however, stood out just at the top of his head and tended to poke him if he moved too quickly.
"It wasn't really meant to be worn," Belgarath told him. "We had to improvise."
Once again, the three of them passed through the dimly lighted corndors of the sleeping palace and emerged through a side door. Silk slipped on ahead, moving as soundlessly as a cat and keeping to the shadows. Belgarath and Garion waited. An open window perhaps twenty feet overhead faced out into the courtyard. As they stood together beneath it, a faint light appeared, and the voice that spoke down to them was very soft. "Errand?
" it said.
"Yes," Garion replied without thinking. "Everything's all right. Go back to bed."
"Belgarion," the child said with a strange kind of satisfaction. Then he added, "Good-bye," in a somewhat more wistful tone, and he was gone.
"Let's hope he doesn't run straight to Polgara," Belgarath muttered.
"I think we can trust him, Grandfather. He knew we were leaving and he just wanted to say good-bye."
"Would you like to explain how you know that?"
"I don't know." Garion shrugged. "I just do."
Silk whistled from the courtyard gate, and Belgarath and Garion followed him down into the quiet streets of the city.
It was still early spring, and the night was cool but not chilly. There was a fragrance in the air, washing down over the city from the high meadows in the mountains behind Riva and mingling with peat smoke and the salty tang of the sea. The stars overhead were bright, and the newly risen moon, looking swollen as it rode low over the horizon, cast a glittering golden path across the breast of the Sea of the Winds. Garion felt that excitement he always experienced when starting out at night. He had been cooped up too long, and each step that took him farther and farther from the dull round of appointments and ceremonies filled him with an almost intoxicating anticipation.
"It's good to be on the road again," Belgarath murmured, as if reading his thoughts.
"Is it always like this?" Garion whispered back. "I mean, even after all the years that you've been doing it?"
"Always," Belgarath replied. "Why do you think I prefer the life of a vagabond?"
They moved on down through the dark streets to the city gate and out through a small sallyport to the wharves jutting into the moondappled waters of the harbor.
Captain Greldik was a bit drunk when they reached his ship. The vagrant seaman had ridden out the winter in the safety of the harbor at Riva. His ship had been hauled out on the strand, her bottom scraped and her seams recaulked. Her main mast, which had creaked rather alarmingly on the voyage from Sendaria, had been reinforced and fitted with new sails. Then Greldik and his crew had spent much of their time carousing. The effects of three months of steady dissipation showed on his face when they woke him. His eyes were bleary, and there were dark-stained pouches under them. His bearded face looked puffy and unwell.