“My goodness,” Velvet murmured mildly.
Knowing that it was silly and melodramatic, but still caught up in that towering, irrational anger, Garion caught the stunned ’Zakath by the arm with his left hand and gestured with the sword he held in his right. “Now, we’re going to go talk with Belgarath,” he announced.
“We’ll go through the hallways if you’ll give me your word not to call soldiers every time we go around a corner. Otherwise, we’ll just cut straight through the house. The library’s sort of in that direction, isn’t it?” he pointed at one of the still-standing walls with his sword.
“Belgarion,” Velvet chided him gently, “now really, that’s no way to behave. Kal Zakath has been a very courteous host. I’m sure that now that he understands the situation, he’ll be more than happy to cooperate, won’t you, your Imperial Majesty?” She smiled winsomely at the Emperor. “We wouldn’t want the Rivan King to get really angry, now would we? There are so many breakable things about—windows, walls, houses, the city of Rak Hagga—that sort of thing.”
They found Belgarath in the library again. He was reading a small scroll, and there was a large tankard at his elbow.
“Something’s come up,” Garion said shortly as he entered.
“Oh?”
“Velvet tells us that she and Silk found out that it was Naradas who poisoned ’Zakath.”
“Naradas?” the old man blinked. “That’s a surprise, isn’t it?”
“What’s she up to, Grandfather? Zandramas, I mean.”
“I’m not sure.” Belgarath looked at ’Zakath. “Who’s likely to succeed you if somebody manages to put you to sleep?”
’Zakath shrugged. “There are a few distant cousins scattered about—mostly in the Melcene Islands and Celanta. The line of the succession is a little murky.”
“Perhaps that’s what she has in mind, Belgarath,” Velvet said seriously. “If there’s any truth in that Grolim Prophecy you found in Rak Hagga, she’s got to have an Angarak king with her at the time of the final meeting.
A tame king would suit her purposes much better than someone like his Majesty here—some third or fourth cousin she could crown and anoint and proclaim king.Then she could have her Grolims keep an eye on him and deliver him to her at the proper time.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” he agreed. “I think there may be a bit more to it than that, though. Zandramas has never been that straightforward about anything before.”
“I hope you all realize that I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re talking about,” ’Zakath said irritably.
“Just how much does he know?” Belgarath asked Garion.
“Not very much, Grandfather.”
“All right. Maybe if he does know what’s going on, he won’t be quite so difficult.” He turned to the Mallorean Emperor. “Have you ever heard of the Mrin Codex?” he asked.
“I’ve heard that it was written by a madman—like most of the other so-called prophecies.”
“How about the Child of Light and the Child of Dark?”
“That’s part of the standard gibberish used by religious hysterics.”
“’Zakath, you’re going to have to believe in something. This is going to be very difficult for you to grasp if you don’t.”
“Would you settle for a temporary suspension of skepticism?” the Emperor countered.
“Fair enough, I suppose. All right, now, this gets complicated, so you’re going to have to pay attention, listen carefully, and stop me if there’s anything you don’t understand.”
The old man then proceeded to sketch in the ancient story of the “accident” that had occurred before the world had begun and the divergence of the two possible courses of the future and of the two consciousnesses which had somehow infused those courses.
“All right,” ’Zakath said. “That’s fairly standard theology so far. I’ve had Grolims preaching to the same nonsense since I was a boy.”
Belgarath nodded. “I just wanted to start us off from common ground.” He went on then, telling ’Zakath of the events spanning the eons between the cracking of the world and the Battle of Vo Mimbre.
“Our point of view is somewhat different,” ’Zakath murmured.
“It would be,” Belgarath agreed. “All right, there were five hundred years between Vo Mimbre and the theft of the Orb by Zedar the Apostate.”
“Recovery.” ’Zakath corrected. “The Orb was stolen from Cthol Mishrak by Iron-grip the thief and by—” he stopped, and his eyes suddenly widened as he stared at the seedy-looking old man.
“Yes,” Belgarath said, “I really was there, ’Zakath—and I was there two thousand years before, when Torak originally stole the Orb from my Master.”
“I’ve been sick, Belgarath,” the Emperor said weakly, sinking into a chair. “My nerves aren’t really up for too many of these shocks.”
Belgarath looked at him, puzzled.
“Their Majesties were having a little discussion,” Velvet explained brightly.” King Belgarion gave the Emperor a little demonstration of some of the more flamboyant capabilities of the Sword of the Rivan King. The Emperor was quite impressed. So was most everybody else who happened to be in that part of the house.”
Belgarath gave Garion a chill look. “Playing again?” he asked.
Garion tried to reply, but there was nothing he could really say.
“All right, let’s get on with this,” Belgarath continued briskly. “What happened after the emergence of Garion here is all recent history, so I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”
“Garion?” ’Zakath asked.
“A more common—and familiar—form. ‘Belgarion’ is a bit ostentatious, wouldn’t you say?”
“No more so than ‘Belgarath.’”
“I’ve worn ‘Belgarath’ for almost seven thousand years, ’Zakath, and I’ve sort of rubbed off the rough edges and corners. Garion’s only been wearing his ‘Bel’ for a dozen years, and it still squeaks when he turns around too quickly ”
Garion felt slightly offended by that.
“Anyway,” the old man continued, “after Torak was dead, Garion and Ce’Nedra got married. About a year or so ago, she gave birth to a son. Garion’s attention at that time was on the Bear-cult. Someone had tried to kill Ce’Nedra and had succeeded in killing the Rivan Warder.”
“I’d heard about that,” ’Zakath said.
“Anyway, he was in the process of stamping out the cult—he stamps quite well once he puts his mind to it—when someone crept into the Citadel at Riva and abducted his infant son—my great-grandson.”
“No!” ’Zakath exclaimed.
“Oh, yes,” Belgarath continued grimly. “We thought it was the cult and marched to Rheon in Drasnia, their headquarters, but it was all a clever ruse. Zandramas had abducted prince Geran and misdirected us to Rheon. The leader of the cult turned out to be Harakan, one of the henchmen of Urvon—is this coming too fast for you?”
’Zakath’s face was startled, and his eyes had gone wide again. “No,” he said, swallowing hard. “I think I can keep up.”
“There isn’t too much more. After we discovered our mistakes, we took up the abductor’s trail. We know that she’s going to Mallorea—to a ‘place which is no more.’ That’s where the Sardion is. We have to stop her, or at least arrive there at the same time. Cyradis believes that when we all arrive at this ‘place which is no more,’ there’s going to be one of those confrontations between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark which have been happening since before the beginning of time—except that this is going to be the last one. She’ll choose between them, and that’s supposed to be the end of it.”
“I’m afraid that it’s at that point that my skepticism reasserts itself, Belgarath,” ’Zakath said. “You don’t actually expect me to believe that these two shadowy figures that predate the world are going to arrive at this mysterious place to grapple once more, do you?”