’Zakath came to his feet, his eyes ablaze. “You go too far!” he roared, slamming his fist down on the table.
“Amazing,” Garion said sarcastically. “You are alive after all. I thought I might have to step on your foot to get any kind of response of you. All right, now that you’re awake, let’s fight.”
“What do you mean, fight?” ’Zakath demanded, his face still flushed with anger. “Fight about what?”
“About whether or not you’re going with us to Mallorea.”
“Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m going with you. What we are going to fight about is your incredible lack of common courtesy.”
Garion stared at him for a moment and then suddenly doubled over in a gale of helpless laughter.
’Zakath’s face was still red, and his fists were clenching and unclenching. Then a slightly sheepish expression came over his face, and he, too, began to laugh.
Belgarath let out an explosive breath. “Garion,” he said irritably, “let me know when you’re going to do something like that. My veins aren’t what they used to be.”
’Zakath wiped at his eyes, though he was still laughing. “How long do you think it might take for you and your friends to get packed?” he asked them.
“Not too long,” Garion replied. “Why?”
“I’m suddenly homesick for Mal Zeth. It’s spring there now, and the cherry trees are in bloom. You and Ce’Nedra will love Mal Zeth, Garion.”
Garion was not entirely sure if the omission of the “Bel” was inadvertent or an overture of friendship. He was, however, quite sure that the Emperor of Mallorea was a man of even greater complexity than he had imagined.
“I hope you’ll all excuse me now,” ’Zakath said, “but I want to talk with Brador and get a few more details about what’s been going on in Karanda. This Mengha he told me about seems to be mounting an open insurrection against the crown, and I’ve always had a violent prejudice against that sort of thing.”
“I can relate to that,” Garion agreed blandly.
For the next few days the road between Rak Hagga and the port city of Rak Cthan was thick with imperial messengers. Finally, on a frosty morning when the sun was bright and the sky dark blue and when misty steam rose from the dark waters of Lake Hagga, they set out, riding across a winter-browned plain toward the coast. Garion, his gray Rivan cloak drawn about him, rode at the head of the column with ’Zakath, who seemed for some reason to be in better spirits than he had been at any time since the two had met. The column which followed them stretched back for miles.
“Vulgar, isn’t it?” the Mallorean said wryly, looking back over his shoulder. “I’m absolutely surrounded by parasites and toadies, and they proliferate like maggots in rotten meat.”
“If they bother you so much, then why not dismiss them?” Garion suggested.
“I can’t. They all have powerful relatives. I have to balance them very carefully—one from this tribe to match the one from that clan. As long as no one family has too many high offices, they spend all their time plotting against each other. That way they don’t have the time to plot against me.”
“I suppose that’s one way to keep things under control.”
As the sun moved up through the bright blue winter sky at this nether end of the world, the frost gently dissolved from the long stems of dead grass or fell lightly from the fern and bracken to leave ghostly white imprints of those drooping brown fronds on the short green moss spread beneath.
They paused for a noon meal that was every bit as sumptuous as one that might have been prepared back in Rak Hagga and was served on snowy damask beneath a wide-spread canvas roof. “Adequate, I suppose,” ’Zakath said critically after they had eaten.
“You’re overpampered, my lord,” Polgara told him. “A hard ride in wet weather and a day or so on short rations would probably do wonders for your appetite.”
’Zakath gave Garion an amused look. “I thought it was just you,” he said, “but this blunt outspokenness seems to be a characteristic of your whole family ".
Garion shrugged. “It saves time.”
“Forgive my saying this, Belgarion,” Sadi interjected, “but what possible interest can an immortal have in time?” He sighed rather mournfully. “Immortality must give one a great deal of satisfaction—watching all one’s enemies grow old and die.”
“It’s much overrated,” Belgarath said, leaning back in his chair with a brimming silver tankard. “Sometimes whole centuries go by when one doesn’t have any enemies and there’s nothing to do but watch the years roll by.”
’Zakath suddenly smiled broadly. “Do you know something?” he said to them all. “I feel better right now than I’ve felt in over twenty-five years. It’s as if a great weight has been lifted from me.”
“Probably an aftereffect of the poison,” Velvet suggested archly. “Get plenty of rest, and it should pass in a month or so.”
“Is the Margravine always like this?” ’Zakath asked.
“Sometimes she’s even worse,” Silk replied morosely.
As they emerged from beneath the wide-spread canvas, Garion looked around for his horse, a serviceable roan with a long, hooked nose, but he could not seem to see the animal. Then he suddenly noticed that his saddle and packs were on a different horse, a very large dark gray stallion. Puzzled, he looked at ’Zakath, who was watching him intently. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Just a little token of my unbounded respect, Garion,” ’Zakath said, his eyes alight. “Your roan was an adequate mount, I suppose, but he was hardly a regal animal. A King needs a kingly horse, and I think you’ll find that Chretienne can lend himself to any occasion that requires ceremony.”
“Chretienne?”
“That’s his name. He’s been the pride of my stable here in Cthol Murgos. Don’t you have a stable at Riva?”
Garion laughed. “My kingdom’s an island, ’Zakath. We’re more interested in boats than in horses.” He looked at the proud gray standing with his neck arched and with one hoof lightly pawing the earth and was suddenly overcome with gratitude. He clasped the Mallorean Emperor’s hand warmly. “This is a magnificent gift, ’Zakath,” he said.
“Of course it is. I’m a magnificent fellow—or hadn’t you noticed? Ride him, Garion. Feel the wind in your face and let the thunder of his hooves fill your blood.”
“Well,” Garion said, trying to control his eagerness, “maybe he and I really ought to get to know each other.”
’Zakath laughed with delight. “Of course,” he said.
Garion approached the big gray horse, who watched him quite calmly. “I guess we’ll be sharing a saddle for a while,” he said to the animal. Chretienne nickered and nudged at Garion with his nose.
“He wants to run,” Eriond said. “I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind. Horse wants to run, too.”
“All right,” Garion agreed. “Let’s go then.” He gathered the reins, set his foot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. The gray was running almost before Garion was in place.
It was a new experience. Garion had spent many hours riding—sometimes for weeks on end. He had always taken care of his mounts, as any good Sendar would, but there had never really been any personal attachment before. For him, a horse had simply been a means of conveyance, a way to get from one place to another, and riding had never been a particular source of pleasure.
With this great stallion, Chretienne, however, it was altogether different. There was a kind of electric thrill to the feel of the big horse’s muscles bunching and flowing beneath him as they ran out across the winter-blown grass toward a rounded hill a mile or so distant, with Eriond and his chestnut stallion racing alongside.