“Please forgive me, Holy Belgarath,” Andorig begged in a strangled voice.
Mister Wolf drew himself up and spoke sternly, his words slipping into the measured cadences of the Mimbrate idiom as easily as Aunt Pol’s had earlier. “I charge thee, Sir Knight, to care for this tree. It hath grown here to renew thy faith and trust. Thy debt to it must be paid with tender and loving attention to its needs. In time it will bear fruit, and thou wilt gather the fruit and give it freely to any who ask it of thee. For thy soul’s sake, thou wilt refuse none, no matter how humble. As the tree gives freely, so shalt thou.”
“That’s a nice touch,” Aunt Pol approved. Wolf winked at her.
“I will do even as thou hast commanded me, Holy Belgarath,” Sir Andorig choked. “I pledge my heart to it.”
Mister Wolf returned to his horse. “At least he’ll do one useful thing in his life,” he muttered.
After that there was no further discussion. The palace gate creaked open, and they all rode into the inner courtyard and dismounted. Mandorallen led them past kneeling and even sobbing nobles who reached out to touch Mister Wolf’s robe as he passed. At Mandorallen’s heels they walked through the broad, tapestried hallways with a growing throng behind them. The door to the throne room opened, and they entered.
The Arendish throne room was a great, vaulted hall with sculptured buttresses soaring upward along the walls. Tall, narrow windows rose between the buttresses, and the light streaming through their stained-glass panels was jeweled. The floor was polished marble, and on the carpeted stone platform at the far end stood the double throne of Arendia, backed by heavy purple drapes. Flanking the draped wall hung the massive antique weapons of twenty generations of Arendish royalty. Lances, maces, and huge swords, taller than any man, hung among the tattered war banners of forgotten kings.
Korodullin of Arendia was a sickly-looking young man in a gold-embroidered purple robe, and he wore his large gold crown as if it were too heavy for him. Beside him on the double throne sat his pale, beautiful queen. Together they watched somewhat apprehensively as the throng surrounding Mister Wolf approached the wide steps leading up to the throne.
“My King,” Mandorallen announced, dropping to one knee, “I bring into thy presence Holy Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur and the staff upon which the kingdoms of the West have leaned since time began.”
“He knows who I am, Mandorallen,” Mister Wolf said. He stepped forward and bowed briefly. “Hail Korodullin and Mayaserana,” he greeted the king and queen. “I’m sorry we haven’t had the chance to get acquainted before.”
“The honor is ours, noble Belgarath,” the young king replied in a voice whose rich timbre belied his frail appearance.
“My father spoke often of thee,” the queen said.
“We were good friends,” Wolf told her. “Allow me to present my daughter, Polgara.”
“Great Lady,” the king responded with a respectful inclination of his head. “All the world knows of thy power, but men have forgotten to speak of thy beauty.”
“We’ll get along well together,” Aunt Pol answered warmly, smiling at him.
“My heart trembles at the sight of the flower of all womanhood,” the queen declared.
Aunt Pol looked at the queen thoughtfully. “We must talk, Mayaserana,” she said in a serious tone, “in private and very soon.”
The queen looked startled.
Mister Wolf introduced the rest of them, and each bowed in turn to the young king.
“Welcome, gentles all,” Korodullin said. “My poor court is overwhelmed by so noble a company.”
“We don’t have much time, Korodullin,” Mister Wolf told him. “The courtesy of the Arendish throne is the marvel of the world. I don’t want to offend you and your lovely queen by cutting short those stately observances which so ornament your court, but I have certain news which I have to present to you in private. The matter is of extreme urgency.”
“Then I am at thy immediate disposal,” the king replied, rising from his throne. “Forgive us, dear friends,” he said to the assembled nobles, “but this ancient friend of our kingly line hath information which must be imparted to our ears alone with utmost urgency. I pray thee, let us go apart for a little space of time to receive this instruction. We shall return presently.”
“Polgara,” Mister Wolf said.
“Go ahead, father,” she replied. “Just now I have to speak with Mayaserana about something that’s very important to her.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No, father, it can’t.” And with that she took the queen’s arm, and the two left. Mister Wolf stared after her for a moment; then he shrugged, and he and Korodullin also left the throne room. An almost shocked silence followed their departure.
“Most unseemly,” an old courtier with wispy white hair disapproved. “A necessary haste, my Lord,” Mandorallen informed him. “As the revered Belgarath hath intimated, our mission is the hinge-pin of the survival of all the kingdoms of the west. Our Ancient Foe may soon be abroad again. It will not be long, I fear, ere Mimbrate knights will again stand the brunt of titanic war.”
“Blessed then be the tongue which brings the news,” the white-haired old man declared. “I had feared that I had seen my last battle and would die abed in my dotage. I thank great Chaldan that I still have my vigor, and that my prowess is undiminished by the passage of a mere fourscore years.”
Garion drew off by himself to one side of the room to wrestle with a problem. Events had swept him into King Korodullin’s court before he had had the time to prepare himself for an unpleasant duty. He had given his word to Lelldorin to bring certain things to the king’s attention, but he did not have the faintest idea how to begin. The exaggerated formality of the Arendish court intimidated him. This was not at all like the rough, good-natured court of King Anheg in Val Alorn or the almost homey court of King Fulrach in Sendar. This was Vo Mimbre, and the prospect of blurting out news of the wild scheme of a group of Asturian firebrands as he had blurted out the news of the Earl of Jarvik in Cherek now seemed utterly out of the question.
Suddenly the thought of that previous event struck him forcibly. The situation then was so similar to this one that it seemed all at once like some elaborate game. The moves on the board were almost identical, and in each case he had been placed in the uncomfortable position of being required to block that last crucial move where a king would die and a kingdom would collapse. He felt oddly powerless, as if his entire life were in the fingers of two faceless players maneuvering pieces in the same patterns on some vast board in a game that, for all he knew, had lasted for eternity. There was no question about what had to be done. The players, however, seemed content to leave it up to him to come up with a way to do it.
King Korodullin appeared shaken when he returned to the throne room with Mister Wolf a half hour later, and he controlled his expression with obvious difficulty. “Forgive me, gentles all,” he apologized, “but I have had disturbing news. For the present time, however, let us put aside our cares and celebrate this historic visit. Summon musicians and command that a banquet be made ready.”
There was a stir near the door, and a black-robed man entered with a half dozen Mimbrate knights in full armor following him closely, their eyes narrow with suspicion and their hands on their sword hilts as if daring anyone to bar their leader’s path. As the robed man strode nearer, Garion saw his angular eyes and scarred cheeks. The man was a Murgo.
Barak put a firm hand on Hettar’s arm.
The Murgo had obviously dressed in haste and he seemed slightly breathless from his burned trip to the throne room. “Your Majesty,” he rasped, bowing deeply to Korodullin, “I have just been advised that visitors have arrived at thy court and have made haste here to greet them in the name of my king, Taur Urgas.”