Polgara looked up quickly. “Sovereign specific? A universal remedy? I know of no such agent.”
“But it doth exist, Lady Polgara. I know not its origins nor its composition, but I have felt its gentle power abroad in the world for some years now.”
Polgara looked at Andel, but the healer shook her head helplessly. “I do not know of such a potion, my lady.”
“Think, Cyradis,” Polgara said urgently. “Anything you can tell us might give us a clue.”
The blindfolded Seeress touched the fingertips of one hand lightly to her temple. “Its origins are recent,” she said, half to herself. “It came into being less than a score of years ago—some obscure flower, or so it seemeth to me.”
“It’s hopeless, then,” Sadi said. “There are millions of kinds of flowers.” He rose and crossed the room to Belgarath. “I think we might want to leave here—almost immediately,” he murmured. “At the first suggestion of the word ‘poison,’ people start looking for the nearest Nyissan—and those associated with him. I think we’re in a great deal of danger right now.”
“Can you think of anything else, Cyradis?” Polgara passed. “No matter how remote?”
The Seeress struggled with it, her face strained as she reached deeper into her strange vision. Her shoulders finally sagged in defeat. “Nothing,” she said. “Only a woman’s face.”
“Describe it.”
“She is tall,” the Seeress replied. “Her hair is very dark, but her skin is like marble. Her husband is much involved with horses.”
“Adara!” Garion exclaimed, the beautiful face of his cousin suddenly coming before his eyes.
Polgara snapped her fingers. “And Adara’s rose!” Then she frowned. “I examined that flower very closely some years back, Cyradis,” she said. “Are you absolutely sure? There are some unusual substances in it, but I didn’t find any particular medicinal qualities in any of them—either in any distillation or powder.”
Cyradis concentrated. “Can healing be accomplished by means of a fragrance, Lady Polgara?”
Polgara’s eyes narrowed in thought. “There are some minor remedies that are inhaled,” she said doubtfully, “but—”
“There are poisons that can be administered in that fashion, Lady Polgara,” Sadi supplied. “The fumes are drawn into the lungs and from there into the heart. Then the blood carries them to every part of the body. It could very well be the only way to neutralize the effects of thalot.”
Belgarath’s expression had grown intent. “Well, Pol?” he asked.
“It’s worth a try, father,” she replied. “I’ve got a few of the flowers. They’re dried, but they might work.”
“Any seeds?”
“A few, yes.”
“Seeds?” Andel exclaimed. “Kal Zakath would be months in his grave before any bush could grow and bloom.”
The old man chuckled slyly. “Not quite,” he said, winking at Polgara. “I have quite a way with plants sometimes. I’m going to need some dirt—and some boxes or tubs to put it in.”
Sadi went to the door and spoke briefly with the guards outside. They looked baffled, but a short command from Andel sent them scurrying.
“What is the origin of this strange flower, Lady Polgara?” Cyradis asked curiously, “How is it that thou art so well acquainted with it?”
“Garion made it.” Polgara shrugged, looking thoughtfully at ’Zakath’s narrow cot. “I think we’ll want the bed out from the wall, father,” she said. “I want it surrounded by flowers.”
“Made?” the Seeress exclaimed.
Polgara nodded. “Created, actually,” she said absently. “Do you think it’s warm enough in here, father? We’re going to want big, healthy blooms, and even at best the flower’s a bit puny.”
“I did my best,” Garion protested.
“Created?” Cyradis’ voice was awed. Then she bowed to Garion with profound respect.
When the tubs of half-frozen dirt had been placed about the stricken Emperor’s bed, smoothed, and dampened with water, Polgara took a small leather pouch from her canvas sack, removed a pinch of minuscule seeds, and carefully sowed them in the soil.
“All right,” Belgarath said, rolling up his sleeves in a workmanlike fashion, “stand back.” He bent and touched the dirt in one of the tubs. “You were right, Pol,” he muttered. “Just a little too cold.” He frowned slightly, and Garion saw his lips move. The surge was not a large one, and the sound of it was little more than a whisper. The damp earth in the tubs began to steam. “That’s better,” he said. Then he extended his hands out over the narrow cot and the steaming tubs. Again Garion felt the surge and the whisper.
At first nothing seemed to happen, but then tiny specks of green appeared on the top of the dampened dirt. Even as Garion watched those little leaves grow and expand, he remembered where he had seen Belgarath perform this same feat before. As clearly as if he were there, he saw the courtyard before King Korodullin’s palace at Vo Mimbre and he saw the apple twig the old man had thrust down between two flagstones expand and reach up toward the old sorcerer’s hand as proof to the skeptical Sir Andorig that he was indeed who he said he was.
The pale green leaves had grown darker, and the spindly twigs and tendrils that had at first appeared had already expanded into low bushes.
“Make them vine up across the bed, father,” Polgara said critically. “Vines produce more blossoms, and I want a lot of blossoms.”
He let out his breath explosively and gave her a look that spoke volumes. “All right,” he said finally. “You want vines? Vines it is.”
“Is it too much for you, father?” she asked solicitously.
He set his jaw, but did not answer. He did, however, start to sweat. Longer tendrils began to writhe upward like green snakes winding up around the legs of the Emperor’s cot and reaching upward to catch the bedframe. Once they had gained that foothold, they seemed to pause while Belgarath caught his breath. “This is harder than it looks,” he puffed. Then he concentrated again, and the vines quickly overspread the cot and Kal Zakath’s inert body until only his ashen face remained uncovered by them.
“All right,” Belgarath said to the plants, “that’s far enough. You can bloom now.”
There was another surge and a peculiar ringing sound.
The tips of all the myriad twiglets swelled, and then those buds began to split, revealing their pale lavender interiors. Almost shyly the lopsided little flowers opened, filling the room with a gentle-seeming fragrance. Garion straightened as he breathed in that delicate odor. For some reason, he suddenly felt very good, and the cares and worries which had beset him for the past several months seemed to fall away.
The slack-faced ’Zakath stirred slightly, took a breath, and sighed deeply. Polgara laid her fingertips to the side of his neck. “I think it’s working, father,” she said. “His heart’s not laboring so hard now, and his breathing’s easier.”
“Good,” Belgarath replied. “I hate to go through something like that for nothing.”
Then the Emperor opened his eyes. The shimmering form of Cyradis hovered anxiously at the foot of his bed.
Strangely, he smiled when he saw her, and her shy, answering smile lighted her pale face. Then ’Zakath sighed once more and closed his eyes again. Garion leaned forward to make sure that the sick man was still breathing.
When he looked back toward the foot of the bed, the Seeress of Kell was gone.
4
A warm wind came in off the lake that night, and the wet snow that had blanketed Rak Hagga and the surrounding countryside turned to a dreary slush that sagged and fell from the limbs of the trees in the little garden at the center of the house and slid in sodden clumps from the gray slate roof. Garion and Silk sat near the fire in the mauve-cushioned room, looking out at the garden and talking quietly.