Garion spent most days closeted with Kail now. Many decisions had been made in his absence. Although, almost without exception, he approved of Kail’s handling of those matters, he still needed to be briefed on them and some of those decisions needed to be ratified by the royal signature.
Ce’Nedra’s pregnancy was proceeding along expected lines. The little queen bloomed and swelled and became increasingly short-tempered. The peculiar hungers for exotic foods which sometimes beset ladies in that delicate condition were not nearly as much fun for the Rivan Queen as they were for most other ladies. There has long been a suspicion in the male half of the population that these gastronomical yearnings are nothing more than a peculiar form of entertainment for their wives. The more exotic and unobtainable a given food might be and the more extreme the lengths to which a doting husband must go to put his hands on it, the more the ladies would insist that they would absolutely die if it were not provided in abundance. Garion privately suspected that the whole business involved little more than a desire for reassurance. If a husband proved willing to disassemble the known world to obtain strawberries out of season or strange seafoods normally found only in waters half a world away, it was a sure sign that he still loved his wife, despite her disappearing waistline. It was not nearly as much fun for Ce’Nedra, because each time she made a seemingly impossible request, Garion simply stepped into the next room, created the foodstuff in question on the spot, and presented it to her – usually on a silver platter. Ce’Nedra grew increasingly sulky about the whole business and finally gave up on it entirely.
And then late on a very frosty autumn evening, an ice-coated Mallorean ship entered the harbor, and her captain delivered a packet of neatly folded parchment bearing the seal of Zakath of Mallorea. Garion thanked the seaman profusely, offered him and his crew the hospitality of the Citadel and then immediately carried Zakath’s letter to the royal apartment. Ce’Nedra was sitting by the fire, knitting. Geran and the young wolf were lying together on the hearth, both of them dozing and twitching slightly as they dreamed. The two always slept together. Ce’Nedra had finally given up the idea of trying to keep them separate at night, since no door in the world could be effectively locked from both sides.
‘What is it, dear?’ she asked as Garion entered.
‘We just received a letter from Zakath,’ he replied.
‘Oh? What does he say?’
‘I haven’t read it yet.’
‘Open it, Garion. I’m dying to find out what’s happening in Mal Zeth.’
Garion broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. ‘For his Majesty, King Belgarion of Riva,’ he read aloud, ‘Overlord of the West, Godslayer, Lord of the Western Sea, and for his revered Queen, Ce’Nedra, co-ruler of the Isle of the Winds, Princess of the Tolnedran Empire, and Jewel of the House of Borune from Zakath, Emperor of all of Angarak.’…
‘I hope this finds you both in good health and I send greetings to your daughter, whether she has already arrived or if her birth be still impending. (I have not, I hasten to assure you, become suddenly clairvoyant. Cyradis said once that she was no longer blessed with her vision. I have come to suspect that she was not entirely truthful on that score.)
A great deal has happened here since we parted. The imperial court, I suspect, was more than a little pleased by the alteration in my personality which was the direct result of our journey to Korim and by what happened there. I must have been an impossible ruler to deal with. This is not to suggest that all here in Mal Zeth has become a fairy tale of good feeling and felicity. The general staff was mightily upset when I declared my intention to conclude a peace treaty with King Urgit. You know how generals are. If you take their favorite war away from them, they snivel and complain and pout like spoiled children. I had to step on a few necks quite firmly. Incidentally, I recently promoted Atesca to the position of Commander-in-Chief of the armies of Mallorea. This also enraged the other members of the general staff, but no one can please everybody. Urgit and I have been in communication with each other, and I find him to be a rare fellow – quite nearly as droll as his brother. I think we’ll get on well together. The bureaucracy very nearly went into collective apoplexy when I announced the autonomy of the Dalasian Protectorates. It’s my feeling that the Dals must be permitted to go their own way, but many members of the bureaucracy have vested interests there, and they sniveled and complained and pouted almost as much as the generals did. That came to an abrupt halt however, when I announced my intention to have Brador conduct a thorough audit of the affairs of every Bureau Chief in the government. The sound of a massive divestiture of all holdings in the protectorates was well-nigh deafening.
Rather surprisingly, an ancient Grolim arrived at the palace shortly after we returned from Dal Perivor. I was about to send him away, but Eriond insisted rather firmly that he remain. The old fellow had some unpronounceable Grolim name, but Eriond changed it to Pelath for some reason. The old boy has a sweet disposition, but he sometimes speaks very strangely. The language he uses sounds very much like that of the Ashabine Oracles or the Mallorean Gospels of the Dals. Very peculiar.’
‘I’d almost forgotten that,’ Garion interrupted his reading.
‘What’s that, dear?’ Ce’Nedra asked him, looking up from her knitting.
‘Do you remember that old Grolim we met in Peldane? That night when the chicken bit you?’
‘Yes. He seemed like a very nice old man.’
‘He was more than that, Ce’Nedra. He was also a prophet, and the Voice told me that he was going to become Eriond’s first disciple.’
‘Eriond has a very long arm, hasn’t he? Keep reading, Garion.’
‘Cyradis, Pelath and I have conferred extensively with Eriond and we’ve all agreed that His status should remain concealed for the time being at least. He is such an innocent that I don’t want to expose Him to the depths of human depravity and chicanery just yet. Let’s not discourage Him so early in His career. We all remembered Torak and His overpowering hunger for worship, but when we offered to worship Eriond, He just laughed at us. Did Polgara perhaps leave something out when she was raising him?
We did make one exception, however. A group of us, accompanied by the third, seventh, and ninth armies, visited Mal Yaska. The Temple Guardmen and Chandim attempted to flee, but Atesca rather effectively rounded them up. I waited until Eriond was off for His morning ride on that unnamed horse of His and spoke quite firmly with the assembled Grolims. I didn’t want to cause Eriond any distress, but I indicated to the Grolims that I would be most unhappy if they did not change their religious affiliation forthwith. Atesca stood at my side, playing with his sword, so they immediately got my drift. Then, with no warning at all, Eriond appeared in the Temple. (How does that horse of His move so fast? The last time he had been observed that morning, He had been more than three leagues from the city.) He told them that black robes were not really all that attractive and that white ones would become them much more. Then, with no more than a faint smile, He actually changed the color of every Grolim robe in the temple. So much for His anonymity in that part of Mallorea, I’m afraid. Next, He told them that they’d no longer need their knives, and every dagger in the place disappeared. Then He extinguished the fires in the sanctum and decorated the altar with flowers. I have since been advised that these trifling modifications are universal here in Mallorea. Urgit is presently investigating to determine if similar conditions prevail in Cthol Murgos. Our new God, I think, will take a bit of getting used to.
To make it short, the Grolims all fell down on their faces. I still suspect that at least some of those conversions may have been fraudulent, so I’m not contemplating a demobilization of the army just yet. Eriond told them to get back on their feet and go out and care for the sick, the poor, the orphaned, and the homeless.
On our way back to Mal Zeth, Pelath pulled his horse in beside mine, smiled that sickeningly sweet smile of his at me, and said, “My Master believes that it’s time for you to change you
r status, Emperor of Mallorea.” That gave me a bit of a turn. I was about half afraid that Eriond might suggest that I abdicate and take up sheepherding or something. Then Pelath went on. “My Master believes that you’ve delayed something for quite long enough.”
“Oh?” I said cautiously.
“The delay is causing the Seeress of Kell a certain distress. My Master strongly suggests that you ask her to marry you. He wants that settled before anything comes along to interfere.”
So, when we got to Mal Zeth, I made what I thought was a very sensible proposal and Cyradis turned me down flat! I thought my heart would stop. Then our mystic little Seeress waxed eloquent. She told me – at great length – what she thought of sensible. I’ve never seen her behave that way before. She was actually passionate, and some of the words she used, though archaic, were hardly flattering. I had to look some of them up, they were so obscure.’
‘Good for her,’ Ce’Nedra said fiercely.
‘Just to make peace,’ the letter went on, ‘I fell to my knees and made a fatuous and embarrassingly gushy proposal, and she was moved by my eloquence to relent and accept me.’
‘Men!’ Ce’Nedra snorted.
‘The cost of the wedding very nearly bankrupt me. I even had to borrow money from one of Kheldar’s business associates – at an outrageous rate of interest. Eriond officiated, of course, and having a God perform the ceremony really nailed down the lid on my coffin. At any rate, Cyradis and I were married last month, and I can truly say that I’ve never been happier in my life.’
‘Oh,’ Ce’Nedra said with that familiar catch in her voice, ‘that’s just lovely.’ She went to the handkerchief.
‘There’s more,’ Garion told her.
‘Keep going,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes.
‘The Angarak Malloreans were not really pleased that I had chosen to marry a Dal, but they’re wisely keeping their displeasure to themselves. I’ve changed a great deal, but not that much. Cyradis is having some difficulty adapting to her new status, and I simply cannot convince her that jewels are a necessary adornment for an empress. She wears flowers instead, and the slavish imitation of the ladies of the court has caused universal despair in the hearts of the jewelers here in Mal Zeth.
I was going to have my distant cousin, the Archduke Otrath, shortened by the length of his head, but he’s such a pathetic fool that I discarded the idea and sent him home instead. Following a suggestion your friend Beldin made in Dal Perivor, I ordered the cretin to set his wife up in a palace in the City of Melcene and never to go near her again for the rest of his life. I understand that the lady is something of a scandal in Melcene, but she probably deserves some recompense for putting up with that silly ass for all those years.
That’s about all from here, Garion. We’re really hungry for news of all our friends and we send them our warmest greetings and affection.
Sincerely,
Zakath and Empress Cyradis
Note that I’m deleting that ostentatious prefix. Oh, by the way, my cat was unfaithful to me again a few months ago. Would Ce’Nedra like a kitten? – or maybe one for your new daughter? I can send two, if you’d like.’
Z
In the early winter of that year, the Rivan Queen grew increasingly discontent, a discontentment and a waspish temper almost in direct proportion to her increasing girth. Some ladies might be uniquely suited for pregnancy; the Rivan Queen was uniquely not. She was snippy with her husband; she was short with her son; and on one occasion she even made an awkward attempt to kick the inoffending young wolf. The wolf nimbly dodged the kick, then looked with some puzzlement at Garion. ‘Has one somehow given offense?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Garion told him. ‘It is only that one’s mate is in some distress. The time of her whelping is approaching, and this always makes the she’s of the man-things uncomfortable and short-tempered.’
‘Ah,’ the wolf said. ‘The man-things are very strange.’
‘Truly,’ Garion agreed.
It was Greldik, naturally, who delivered Poledra to the Isle of the Winds in the middle of a howling blizzard.
‘How did you find your way?’ Garion asked the fur-clad seaman as the two of them sat before the fire in the low-beamed dining hall with tankards of ale in their hands.
‘Belgarath’s wife pointed the way.’ Greldik shrugged. ‘That’s a remarkable woman, do you know that?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Do you know that not one man in my whole crew took a single drink while we were at sea? Not even me. For some reason, we just didn’t want any.’
‘My Grandmother has strong prejudices. Will you be all right here? I want to go up and have a chat with her.’
‘That’s all right, Garion,’ Greldik grinned, patting the nearly full ale keg affectionately. ‘I’ll be just fine.’
Garion went upstairs to the royal apartments.
The tawny-haired woman sat by the fire, idly stroking the young wolf’s ears. Ce’Nedra was sprawled rather awkwardly on a divan.
‘Ah, there you are, Garion,’ Poledra said. She sniffed the air rather delicately. ‘I notice you’ve been drinking.’ Her tone was disapproving.
‘I had one tankard with Greldik.’
‘Would you please sit over there on the other side of the room then? One’s sense of smell is quite acute, and the odor of ale turns one’s stomach.’
‘Is that why you disapprove of drinking?’
‘Of course. What other reason could there be?’
‘I think Aunt Pol disapproves on some sort of moral grounds.’
‘Polgara has some obscure prejudices. Now then,’ she went on seriously. ‘My daughter is in no condition to travel just now, so I’m here to deliver Ce’Nedra’s baby. Pol gave me all sorts of instructions, most of which I intend to ignore. Giving birth is a natural process, and the less interference the better. When it starts, I want you to take Geran and this young wolf here and go to the extreme far end of the Citadel. I’ll send for you when it’s all over.’
‘Yes, Grandmother.’
‘He’s a nice boy,’ Poledra said to the Rivan Queen.
‘I rather like him.’
‘I certainly hope so. All right, then, Garion, just as soon as the baby’s born and we’re sure everything’s all right, you and I are going to return to the Vale. Polgara’s a few weeks behind Ce’Nedra, but we really don’t have too much time to waste. Pol wants you to be there when she gives birth.’
‘You have to go, Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said. ‘I only wish I could.’
Garion was a bit dubious about leaving his wife so soon after she was delivered, but he definitely did want to be in the Vale when Aunt Pol had her baby.
It was three nights later. Garion was having a splendid dream that involved riding down a long, grassy hill with Eriond.
‘Garion,’ Ce’Nedra said, nudging him in the ribs.
‘Yes, dear?’ He was still about half asleep.
‘I think you’d better go get your grandmother.’
He was fully awake immediately. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve been through this before, dear,’ she told him.
He rolled quickly out of bed.
‘Kiss me before you go,’ she told him.
He did that.
‘And don’t forget to take Geran and the puppy when you go off to the other end of the building. Put Geran back to bed when you get there.’
‘Of course.’
A strange expression came over her face. ‘I think you’d better hurry, Garion,’ she suggested.
Garion bolted.
It was nearly dawn when the Queen of Riva was delivered of a baby girl. The infant had a short crop of deep red hair and green eyes. As it had for so many centuries, the Dryad strain bred true. Poledra carried the blanket-wrapped baby through the silent halls of the Citadel to the rooms where Garion sat before a fire and Geran and the wolf slept in a tangle of arms, legs, and paws on a divan.
‘Is Ce’Nedra all right?’ Garion a
sked, coming to his feet.
‘She’s fine,’ his grandmother assured him, ‘a little tired is all. It was a fairly easy delivery.’
Garion heaved a sigh of relief, then turned back the corner of the blanket to look at the small face of his daughter. ‘She looks like her mother,’ he said. People the world over always made that first observation, pointing out the similarities of a new-born to this parent or that as if such resemblances were somehow remarkable. Garion gently took the baby in his arms and looked into that tiny red face. The baby looked back at him, her green-eyed gaze unwavering. It was a familiar gaze. ‘Good morning, Beldaran,’ Garion said softly. He had made that decision quite some time ago. There would be other daughters, and they would be named after a fair number of female relatives on both sides of the family, but it somehow seemed important that his first daughter should be named for Aunt Pol’s blond twin sister, a woman who, though Garion had seen only her image and then only once, was still somehow central to all their lives.
‘Thank you, Garion,’ Poledra said simply.
‘It seems appropriate somehow,’ Garion told her.
Prince Geran was not too impressed with his baby sister, but boys seldom are. ‘Isn’t she awfully little?’ he asked when his father woke him to introduce them.
‘It’s the nature of babies to be little. She’ll grow.’
‘Good.’ Geran looked at her gravely. Then, apparently feeling that he should say something nice about her, he added, ‘She has nice hair. It’s the same color as mother’s, isn’t it?’
‘I noticed that myself.’
The bells of Riva pealed out that morning in celebration, and the Rivan people rejoiced, although there were some, many perhaps, who secretly wished that the royal infant might have been another boy, just for the sake of dynastic security. The Rivans, kingless for so many centuries, were nervous about that sort of thing.
Ce’Nedra, of course, was radiant. She expressed only minimal dissatisfaction with Garion’s choice of a name for their daughter. Her Dryad heritage felt rather strongly the need for a name beginning with the traditional ‘X’. She worked with it a bit, however, and came up with a satisfactory solution to the problem. Garion was fairly certain that in her own mind she had inserted an ‘X’ somewhere in Beldaran’s name. He decided that he didn’t really want to know about it.