“’Zakath is still laying siege to Rak Goska,” Silk reported. “He’s transporting in more troops, though. It’s pretty obvious that he’s going to strike into southern Cthol Murgos as soon as the ground’s firm enough to move an army.”
“Are the Thulls with him?”
“Only a few. Most of them are concentrating on finding the few Grolims left in their kingdom. I always thought Thulls were a stupid people, but you’d be amazed at how creative they can be when it comes to finding new and interesting ways for Grolims to die.”
“We’re going to have to keep an eye on ’Zakath,” Garion said. “I wouldn’t want him to come creeping up on me from the south.”
“I think you can count on him not to creep,” Silk said. “He sent you a message of congratulations, incidentally.”
“He did what?”
“He’s a civilized man, Garion—and a politician. He was badly shaken by the fact that you killed Torak. I think he’s actually afraid of you, so he wants to stay on your good side—at least until he finishes up in southern Cthol Murgos.”
“Who’s in command of the Murgos, now that Taur Urgas is dead?”
“Urgit, his third son by his second wife. There was the usual squabble over the succession by the various sons of Taur Urgas’s assorted wives. The fatalities were numerous, I understand.”
“What kind of man is Urgit?”
“He’s a schemer. I don’t think he’s any match for ’Zakath, but he’ll keep the Malloreans busy for ten or twenty years. By then, ’Zakath may be too old and tired of war to give you any problems.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Hettar married your cousin last week.”
“Adara? I thought she was ill.”
“Not that much, apparently. They’re coming to your wedding along with Cho-Hag and Silar.”
“Is everybody getting married?”
Silk laughed. “Not me, my young friend. In spite of this universal plunge toward matrimony, I still haven’t lost my senses. If worse comes to worst, I still know how to run. The Algars should arrive sometime this morning. They met Korodullin’s entourage, and they’re all coming together. Their ship was right behind mine when we left Camaar.”
“Was Mandorallen with them?”
Silk nodded. “Along with the Baroness of Vo Ebor. The Baron’s still much too ill to travel. I think he’s hoping that he’ll die, to leave the way clear for his wife and Mandorallen.”
Garion sighed.
“Don’t let it make you unhappy, Garion,” Silk advised. “Arends actually enjoy that kind of misery. Mandorallen’s perfectly content to suffer nobly.”
“That’s a rotten thing to say,” Garion accused the little man.
Silk shrugged. “I’m a rotten sort of person,” he admitted.
“Where are you going after—” Garion left it hanging.
“After I see you safely married?” Silk suggested pleasantly. “As soon as I recover from all the drinking I’ll do tonight, I’ll be off for Gar og Nadrak. There’s a great deal of opportunity in the new situation there. I’ve been in contact with Yarblek. He and I are going to form a partnership.”
“With Yarblek?”
“He’s not so bad—if you keep an eye on him—and he’s very shrewd. We’ll probably do rather well together.”
“I can imagine.” Garion laughed. “One of you is bad enough all by himself, but with the two of you acting together, no honest merchant’s going to escape with his skin.”
Silk grinned wickedly. “That was sort of what we had in mind.”
“I imagine that you’ll get very rich.”
“I suppose I could learn to live with that.” Silk’s eyes took on a distant look. “That’s not really what it’s all about, though,” he noted. “It’s a game. The money’s just a way of keeping score. It’s the game that’s important.”
“It seems to me that you told me that once before.”
“Nothing’s changed since then, Garion,” Silk told him with a laugh.
Aunt Pol’s wedding to Durnik took place later that morning in a small, private chapel in the west wing of the Citadel. There were but few guests. Belgarath and the twins, Beltira and Belkira, were there of course, and Silk and Barak. Aunt Pol, beautiful in a deep blue velvet gown, was attended by Queen Layla, and Garion stood with Durnik. The ceremony was performed by the hunchbacked Beldin, dressed for once in decent clothing and with a strangely gentle expression on his ugly face.
Garion’s emotions were very complex during the ceremony. He realized with a sharp little pang that Aunt Pol would no longer be exclusively his. An elemental, childish part of him resented that. He was, however, pleased that it was Durnik whom she was marrying. If anyone deserved her, it was Durnik. The good, plain man’s eyes were filled with absolute love, and he obviously could not take them from her face. Aunt Pol herself was gravely radiant as she stood at Durnik’s side.
As Garion stepped back while the two exchanged vows, he heard a faint rustle. Just inside the door of the chapel, in a hooded cloak that covered her from head to foot and wearing a heavy veil that covered her face, stood Princess Ce’Nedra. She had made a large issue of the fact that by an ancient Tolnedran custom, Garion was not supposed to see her before their wedding on this day, and the cloak and veil provided her with the illusion of invisibility. He could imagine her wrestling with the problem until she had come up with this solution. Nothing could have kept her from Polgara’s wedding, but all the niceties and formalities had to be observed. Garion smiled slightly as he turned back to the ceremony.
It was the expression on Beldin’s face that made him turn again to look sharply toward the back of the chapel—an expression of surprise that turned to calm recognition. At first Garion saw nothing, but then a faint movement up among the rafters caught his eye. The pale, ghostly shape of a snowy owl perched on one of the dark beams, watching as Aunt Pol and Durnik were married.
When the ceremony was concluded and after Durnik had respectfully and rather nervously kissed his bride, the white owl spread her pinions to circle the chapel in ghostly silence. She hovered briefly as if in silent benediction over the happy couple; then with two soft beats of her wings, she moved through the breathless air to Belgarath. The old sorcerer resolutely averted his eyes.
“You may as well look at her, father,” Aunt Pol told him. “She won’t leave until you recognize her.”
Belgarath sighed then, and looked directly at the oddly luminous bird hovering in the air before him. “I still miss you,” he said very simply. “Even after all this time.”
The owl regarded him with her golden, unblinking eyes for a moment, then flickered and vanished.
“What an absolutely astonishing thing,” Queen Layla gasped.
“We’re astonishing people, Layla,” Aunt Pol replied, “and we have a number of peculiar friends—and relatives.” She smiled then, her arm closely linked in Durnik’s. “Besides,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “you wouldn’t really expect a girl to get married without her mother in attendance, would you?”
Following the wedding, they all walked through the corridors of the Citadel back to the central fortress and stopped outside the door of Aunt Pol’s private apartment. Garion was about to follow Silk and Barak as, after a few brief congratulations, they moved on down the hallway, but Belgarath put his hand on his grandson’s arm. “Stay a moment,” the old man said.
“I don’t think we should intrude, Grandfather,” Garion said nervously.
“We’ll only stay for a few minutes,” Belgarath assured him. The old man’s lips were actually quivering with a suppressed mirth. “There’s something I want you to see.”
One of Aunt Pol’s eyebrows raised questioningly as her father and Garion followed into the apartment.
“Are we responding to some ancient and obscure custom, father?” she asked.
“No, Pol,” he replied innocently. “Garion and I only want to toast your happiness, that’s all.”