He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, dear,” he told her, but she had already fallen fast asleep.
It was well past midnight when Garion was awakened by a light tapping on the door of the room in which he slept. “Who is it?” he asked, half rising in his bed.
“A messenger from the Emperor, your Majesty,” A voice replied from the other side of the door. “He instructed me to ask if you would be so good as to join him in his private study.”
“Now? In the middle of the night?”
“Such was the Emperor’s instruction, your Majesty.”
“All right,” Garion said, throwing off his blankets, and swinging around to put his feet on the cold floor.
“Give me a minute or so to get dressed.”
“Of course, your Majesty.”
Muttering to himself, Garion began to pull on his clothes by the faint light coming from the brazier in the corner. When he was dressed, he splashed cold water on his face and raked his fingers through his sandy hair, trying to push it into some semblance of order. Almost as an afterthought he ducked his head and arm through the strap attached to the sheath of Iron-grip’s sword and shrugged it into place across his back. Then he opened the door. “All right,” he said to the messenger, “let’s go.”
Kal Zakath’s study was a book-lined room with several leather-upholstered chairs, a large polished table and a crackling fire on the hearth. The Emperor, still clad in plain white linen, sat in a chair at the table, shuffling through a stack of parchment sheets by the light of a single oil lamp.
“You wanted to see me, ’Zakath?” Garion asked as he entered the room.
“Ah, yes, Belgarion,” ’Zakath said, pushing aside the parchments. “So good of you to come. I understand that your wife is recovering.”
Garion nodded. “Thank you again for sending Andel. Her aid was very helpful.”
“My pleasure, Belgarion.” ’Zakath reached out and lowered the wick in the lamp until the corners of the room filled with shadows. “I thought we might talk a little,” he said.
“Isn’t it sort of late?”
“I don’t sleep very much, Belgarion. A man can lose a third of his life in sleep. The day is filled with bright lights and distractions; the night is dim and quiet and allows much greater concentration. Please, sit down.”
Garion unbuckled his sword and leaned it against a bookcase.
“I’m not really all that dangerous, you know,” the Emperor said, looking pointedly at the great weapon.
Garion smiled slightly, settling into a chair by the fire. “I didn’t bring it because of you, ’Zakath. It’s just a habit. It’s not the kind of sword you want to leave lying around.”
“I don’t think anyone would steal it, Belgarion.”
“It can’t be stolen. I just don’t want anybody getting hurt by accidentally touching it.”
“Do you mean to say that it’s that sword?”
Garion nodded. “I’m sort of obliged to take care of it.
It’s a nuisance most of the time, but there’ve been a few occasions when I was glad I had it with me.”
“What really happened at Cthol Mishrak?” ’Zakath asked suddenly. “I’ve heard all sorts of stories.”
Garion nodded wryly. “So have I. Most of them get the names right, but not very much else. Neither Torak nor I had very much control over what happened. We fought, and I stuck that sword into his chest.”
“And he died?” ’Zakath’s face was intent.
“Eventually, yes.”
“Eventually?”
“He vomited fire first and wept flames. Then he cried out.”
“What did he say?”
“ ‘Mother,’” Garion replied shortly. He didn’t really want to talk about it.
“What an extraordinary thing for him to do. Whatever happened to his body? I had the entire ruin of Cthol Mishrak searched for him.”
“The other Gods came and took it. Do you suppose we could talk about something else? Those particular memories are painful.”
“He was your enemy.”
Garion sighed. “He was also a God, ’Zakath—and killing a God is a terrible thing to have to do.”
“You’re a strangely gentle man, Belgarion. I think I respect you more for that than I do for your invincible courage.”
“I’d hardly say invincible. I was terrified the whole time—and so was Torak, I think. Was there something you really wanted to talk about?”
’Zakath leaned back in his chair, tapping thoughtfully at his pursed lips. “You know that eventually you and I will have to confront each other, don’t you?”
“No,” Garion disagreed. “That’s not absolutely certain.”
“There can only be one King of the World.”
Garion’s look grew pained. “I’ve got enough trouble trying to rule one small island. I’ve never wanted to be King of the World.”
“But I have—and do.”
Garion sighed. “Then we probably will fight at that sooner or later. I don’t think the world was intended to be ruled by one man. If you try to do that, I’ll have to stop you.”
“I am unstoppable, Belgarion.”
“So was Torak—or at least he thought so.”
“That’s blunt enough.”
“It helps to avoid a lot of misunderstandings later on. I’d say that you’ve got enough trouble at home without trying to invade my kingdom—or those of my friends. That’s not to mention the stalemate here in Cthol Murgos.”
“You’re well informed.”
“Queen Porenn is a close personal friend. She keeps information me advised, and Silk picks up a great deal of information during the course of his business dealings.”
“Silk?”
“Excuse me. Prince Kheldar, I mean. Silk’s a nickname of sorts.”
’Zakath looked at him steadily. “In some ways we’re very much alike, Belgarion, and in other ways very different, but we still do what necessity compels us to do. Frequently, we’re at the mercy of events over which we have no control.”
“I suppose you’re talking about the two Prophecies?”
’Zakath laughed shortly. “I don’t believe in prophecy. I only believe in power. It’s curious, though, that we’ve both been faced with similar problems of late. You recently had to put down an uprising in Aloria—a group of religious fanatics, I believe. I have something of much the same nature going on in Darshiva. Religion is a constant thorn in the side of any ruler, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ve been able to work around it-most of the time.”
“You’ve been very lucky then. Torak was neither a good nor kindly God, and his Grolim priesthood is vile.
If I weren’t busy here in Cthol Murgos, I think I might endear myself to the next thousand or so generations by obliterating every Grolim on the face of the earth.”
Garion grinned at him. “What would you say to an alliance with that in mind?” he suggested.
’Zakath laughed briefly, and then his face grew somber again. “Does the name Zandramas mean anything to you?” he asked.
Garion edged around that cautiously, not knowing how much information ’Zakath had about their real reason for being in Cthol Murgos. “I’ve heard some rumors,” he said.
“How about Cthrag Sardius?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“You’re being evasive, Belgarion.” ’Zakath gave him a steady look, then passed his hand wearily across his eyes.
“I think you need some sleep,” Garion told him.
“Time for that soon enough—when my work is done.”
“That’s up to you, I guess.”
“How much do you know about Mallorea, Belgarion?”
“I get reports—a little disjointed sometimes, but fairly current.”
“No. I mean our past.”
“Not too much, I’m afraid. Western historians tried very hard to ignore the fact that Mallorea was even there.”
’Zakath smiled wryly. “The University of Melcene has the same shortsightedness regarding the West,” he noted. “Anyway, over the past several centuries—since the disaster at Vo Mimbre—Mallorean society has become almost completely secular. Torak was bound in sleep, Ctuchik was practicing his perversions here in Cthol Murgos, and Zedar was wandering around the world like a rootless vagabond—what ever happened to him, by the way? I thought he was at Cthol Mishrak.”