"I'm just about to give it all up," he declared, flinging himself into a chair. "I think it might be better just to lock up that library and throw away the key."

She looked at him fondly and smiled. "Now you know that wouldn't do any good, Garion. You know that after a day or so you wouldn't be able to stand it, and no door is so stout that you can't break it down."

"Maybe I should just burn all those books and scrolls," he said morosely. "I can't concentrate on anything else any more. I know there's something hidden under that blot, but I can't find a single clue anywhere to what it might be."

"If you burn that library, Belgarath will probably turn you into a radish," she warned with a smile. "He's very fond of books, you know."

"It might be nice to be a radish for a while," he replied.

"It's really very simple, Garion," she said with that infuriating placidity. "Since all the copies are blotted, why don't you go look at the original?"

He stared at her.

"It has to be somewhere, doesn't it?"

"Well -I suppose so, yes."

"Find out where it is, then, and go look -or send for it."

"I never thought of that."

"Obviously. It's much more fun to rant and rave and be unpleasant about it."

"You know, that's really a very good idea, Ce'Nedra."

"Naturally. You men always want to complicate things so much. Next time you have a problem, dear, just bring it to me. I'll tell you how to solve it."

He let that pass.

The first thing the following morning, Garion went down into the city and called on the Rivan Deacon in the Temple of Belar. The Rivan Deacon was a sober-faced, gentle man. Unlike the priests of Belar in the major temples on the continent, who were frequently more involved in politics than in the care of their flocks, the leader of the Rivan Church concerned himself almost exclusively with the well-being -physical as well as spiritual- of the common people. Garion had always rather liked him.

"I've never actually seen it myself, your Majesty." the Deacon replied in response to Garion's question, "but I've always been told that it's kept in that shrine on the banks of the Mrin River -between the edge of the fens and Boktor."

"Shrine?"

"The ancient Drasnians erected it on the site where the Mrin Prophet was kept chained," the Deacon explained. "After the poor man died, King Bull-neck directed that a memorial of some sort be put up there. They built the shrine directly over his grave. The original scroll is kept there in a large crystal case. A group of priests is there to protect it. Most people wouldn't be allowed to touch it; but considering the fact that you're the Rivan King, I'm sure that they'll make an exception."

"Then it's always been there?"

"Except during the time of the Angarak invasion during the fourth millennium. It was taken by ship to Val Alorn for safekeeping just before Boktor was burned. Torak wanted to get his hands on it, so it was felt wiser to get it out of the country."

"That makes sense," Garion said. "Thank you for the information, your Reverence."

"Glad to be of help, your Majesty."

It was going to be hard to get away. This week was completely out of the question, since there was that meeting with the port authorities the day after tomorrow. And next week would be even worse. There were always so many official meetings and state functions. Garion sighed as he climbed back up the long stairs to the Citadel with his inevitable guard at his side. It somehow seemed that he was almost a prisoner here on this island. There were always so many demands on his time. He could remember a time, not really that long ago, when he started each day on horseback and seldom slept in the same bed two nights in a row. Upon consideration, however, he was forced to admit that even then he had not been free to do as he wished. Though he had not known it, this burden of responsibility had descended upon him on that windy autumn night so many years ago when he, Aunt Pol, Belgarath, and Durnik had crept through the gate at Faldor's farm and out into the wide world that lay before them.

"Well," he muttered under his breath, "this is important too. Brand can manage here. They'll just have to get along without me for a while."

"What was that, your Majesty?" the guard asked politely.

"Just thinking out loud," Garion replied, a little embarrassed.

Ce'Nedra seemed moody and out of sorts that evening. She held Geran almost abstractedly, paying scant attention to him as he played with the amulet at her throat with a look of serious concentration on his face.

"What's the matter, dear?" Garion asked her.

"Just a headache, that's all," she replied shortly. "And a strange sort of ringing in my ears."

"You're tired."

"Maybe that's it." She arose. "I think I'll put Geran in his cradle and go to bed," she declared. "Maybe a good night's sleep will make me feel better."

"I can put him to bed," Garion offered.

"No," she said with a strange look. "I want to be sure that he's safely in his cradle."

"Safe?" Garion laughed. "Ce'Nedra, this is Riva. It's the safest place in the world."

"Go tell that to Arell," she told him and went into the small room adjoining their bedchamber where Geran's cradle stood.

Garion sat up and read until rather late that evening. Ce'Nedra's restless moodiness had somehow communicated itself to him, and he did not feel ready for bed. Finally, he put aside his book and went to the window to look out across the moon-touched waters of the Sea of the Winds lying far below. The long, slow waves seemed almost like molten silver in the pale light, and their stately pace was oddly hypnotic. Finally he blew out the candles and went quietly into the bedroom.

Ce'Nedra was tossing restlessly in her sleep and muttering half-formed phrases -meaningless snatches of fragmentary conversation. Garion undressed and slipped into bed, trying not to disturb her.

"No," she said in a peremptory tone of voice. "I won't let you do that." Then she moaned and tossed her head on the pillow.

Garion lay in the soft darkness, listening to his wife talking in her sleep.

"Garion!" she gasped, coming suddenly awake. "Your feet are cold!"

"Oh," he said, "Sorry."

She drifted almost immediately back into sleep, and the muttering resumed.

It was the sound of a different voice that awoke him several hours later. The voice was oddly familiar, and Garion lay, still almost asleep, trying to remember exactly where he had heard it before. It was a woman's voice, low and musical and speaking in a peculiarly soothing tone.




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