About a half an hour later Lelldorin arrived. “You sent for me, Garion?” he asked.
“Sit down, Lelldorin,” Garion told his friend, then pointedly waited until the valet left the room. “I think I’ve got a little bit of a problem,” he said then, sprawling deeper in the chair by the table. “I wondered if I might ask your help.”
“You know you don’t have to ask, Garion,” the earnest young Asturian told him.
“This has to be just between the two of us,” Garion cautioned. “I don’t want anyone else to know.”
“My word of honor on it,” Lelldorin replied instantly.
Garion slid the dagger across the table to his friend. “A little while ago when I was on my way back here, somebody threw this at me.”
Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide. “Treason?” he gasped. “Either that or something personal,” Garion replied. “I don’t know what it’s all about.”
“You must alert your guards,” Lelldorin declared, jumping to his feet.
“No,” Garion answered firmly. “If I do that, they’ll lock me up entirely. I don’t have very much freedom left at all, and I don’t want to lose it.”
“Did you see him at all?” Lelldorin asked, sitting down again and examining the dagger.
“Just his back. He was wearing one of those gray cloaks.”
“All Rivan wear gray cloaks, Garion.”
“We do have something to work with, though.” Garion took the scrap of wool out from under his tunic. “After he threw the knife, he ran through a door and slammed it shut behind him. He caught his cloak in the door and this got ripped off.”
Lelldorin examined the bit of cloth. “It looks like a corner,” he noted.
“That’s what I think, too,” Garion agreed. “If we both keep our eyes open, we might just happen to see somebody with the corner of his cloak missing. Then, if we can get our hands on his cloak, we might be able to see if this piece matches.”
Lelldorin nodded his agreement, his face hardening. “When we find him, though, I want to deal with him. A king isn’t supposed to become personally involved in that sort of thing.”
“I might decide to suspend the rules,” Garion said grimly. “I don’t like having knives thrown at me. But let’s find out who it is first.”
“I’ll start at once,” Lelldorin said, rising quickly. “I’ll examine every corner of every cloak in Riva if I have to. We’ll find this traitor, Garion. I promise you.”
Garion felt better after that, but it was still a wary young king who, in the company of a detachment of guards, went late that afternoon to the private apartments of the Rivan Warder. He looked about constantly as he walked, and his hand was never far from the hilt of the sword at his waist.
He found Brand seated before a large harp. The Warder’s big hands seemed to caress the strings of the instrument, bringing forth a plaintively rippling melody. The big, grim man’s face was soft and reflective as he played, and Garion found that the music was even more beautiful because it was so unexpected.
“You play very well, my Lord,” he said respectfully as the last notes of the song lingered in the strings.
“I play often, your Majesty,” Brand replied. “Sometimes as I play I can even forget that my wife is no longer with me.” He rose from the chair in front of the harp and squared his shoulders, all softness going out of his face. “How may I serve you, King Belgarion?”
Garion cleared his throat a trifle nervously. “I’m probably not going to say this very well,” he admitted, “but please take it the way I mean it and not the way it might come out.”
“Certainly, your Majesty.”
“I didn’t ask for all this, you know,” Garion began with a vague gesture that took in the entire Citadel. “The crown, I mean, and being king—all of it. I was really pretty happy the way I was.”
“Yes, your Majesty?”
“What I’m trying to get at is—well—you were the ruler here in Riva until I came along.”
Brand nodded soberly.
“I didn’t really want to be king,” Garion rushed on, “and I certainly didn’t want to push you out of your position.”
Brand looked at him, and then he slowly smiled. “I’d wondered why you seemed so uneasy whenever I came into the room, your Majesty. Is that what’s been making you uncomfortable?”
Mutely, Garion nodded.
“You don’t really know us yet, Belgarion,” Brand told him. “You’ve only been here for a little more than a month. We’re a peculiar sort of people. For over three thousand years we’ve been protecting the Orb ever since Iron-grip came to this island. That’s why we exist, and I think that one of the things we’ve lost along the way is that sense of self other men seem to feel is so important. Do you know why I’m called Brand?”
“I never really thought about it,” Garion admitted.
“I do have another name, of course,” Brand said, “but I’m not supposed ever to mention it. Each Warder has been called Brand so that there could never be any sense of personal glory in the office. We serve the Orb; that’s our only purpose. To be quite honest with you, I’m really rather glad you came when you did. It was getting close to the time when I was supposed to choose my successor—with the help of the Orb, of course. But I didn’t have the faintest idea whom to choose. Your arrival has relieved me of that task.”
“We can be friends, then?”
“I think we already are, Belgarion,” Brand replied gravely. “We both serve the same master, and that always brings men close together.”
Garion hesitated. “Am I doing all right?” he blurted.
Brand considered that. “Some of the things you’ve done weren’t exactly the way I might have done them, but that’s to be expected. Rhodar and Anheg don’t always do things the same way either. Each of us has his own particular manner.”
“They make fun of me, don’t they—Anheg, Rhodar, and the others. I hear all the clever remarks every time I make a decision.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Belgarion. They’re Alorns, and Alorns don’t take kings very seriously. They make fun of each other too, you know. You could almost say that as long as they’re joking, everything is all right. If they suddenly become very serious and formal, then you’ll know that you’re in trouble.”
“I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Garion admitted.
“You’ll get used to it in time,” Brand assured him.
Garion felt much better after his conversation with Brand. In the company of his guards he started back toward the royal apartments; but part way there, he changed his mind and went looking for Aunt Pol instead. When he entered her rooms, his cousin Adara was sitting quietly with her, watching as Aunt Pol carefully mended one of Garion’s old tunics. The girl rose and curtsied formally.
“Please Adara,” he said in a pained voice, “don’t do that when we’re alone. I see enough of it out there.” He gestured in the direction of the more public parts of the building.
“Whatever your Majesty wishes,” she replied.
“And don’t call me that. I’m still just Garion.”
She looked gravely at him with her calm, beautiful eyes. “No, cousin,” she disagreed, “you’ll never be ‘just Garion’ any more.”
He sighed as the truth of that struck his heart.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said then, “I must go attend Queen Silar. She’s a bit unwell, and she says it comforts her to have me near.”
“It comforts all of us when you’re near,” Garion told her without even thinking about it.
She smiled at him fondly.
“There might be some hope for him after all,” Aunt Pol observed, her needle busy.
Adara looked at Garion. “He has never really been that bad, Lady Polgara,” she said. She inclined her head toward them both and quietly left the room.
Garion wandered around for a few moments and then flung himself into a chair. A great deal had happened that day, and he felt suddenly at odds with the whole world.