David Eddings - Demon Lord of Karanda

“No, not really. It was with regret—and with contempt for Taur Urgas. He hated him even more than you do.”

“That’s hardly possible, Belgarion. To answer your question, yes, I will sacrifice my empire—the whole world if need be—to spill out the last drop of the blood of Taur Urgas. I will neither sleep nor rest nor be turned aside from my vengeance, and I will crush whomever stands in my path.”

“ Tell him, ” the dry voice in Garion’s mind said suddenly.

“ What? ”

“ Tell him the truth about Urgit . ”

“ But —”

“ Do it, Garion. He needs to know. There are things he has to do, and he won’t do them until he puts this obsession behind him . ”

’Zakath was looking at him curiously.

“Sorry, just receiving instructions,” Garion explained lamely.

“Instructions? From whom?”

“You wouldn’t believe it. I was told to give you some information.” He drew in a deep breath. “Urgit isn’t a Murgo,” he said flatly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I said that Urgit isn’t a Murgo—at least not entirely.

His mother was, of course, but his father was not Taur Urgas.”

“You’re lying!”

“No, I’m not. We found out about it while we were at the Drojim Palace in Rak Urga. Urgit didn’t know about it either.”

“I don’t believe you, Belgarion!” ’Zakath’s face was livid, and he was nearly shouting.

“Taur Urgas is dead,” Garion said wearily. “Urgit made sure of that by cutting his throat and burying him head down in his grave. He also claims that he had every one of his brothers—the real sons of Taur Urgas—killed to make himself secure on the throne. I don’t think there’s one drop of Urga blood left in the world.”

’Zakath’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a trick. You’ve allied yourself with Urgit and brought me this absurd lie to save his life.”

“ Use the Orb, Garion, ” the voice instructed.

“ How? ”

“ Take it off the pommel of the sword and hold it in your right hand. It’ll show ’Zakath the truths that he needs to know .”

Garion rose to his feet. “If I can show you the truth, will you look?” he asked the agitated Mallorean Emperor.

“Look? Look at what?”

Garion walked over to his sword and peeled off the soft leather sleeve covering the hilt. He put his hand on the Orb, and it came free with an audible click. Then he turned back to the man at the table. “I’m not exactly sure how this works,” he said. “I’m told that Aldur was able to do it, but I’ve never tried it for myself. I think you’re supposed to look into this.” He extended his right arm until the Orb was in front of ’Zakath’s face.

“What is that?”

“You people call it Cthrag Yaska,” Garion replied.

’Zakath recoiled, his face blanching.

“It won’t hurt you—as long as you don’t touch it.”

The Orb, which for the past months had rather sullenly obeyed Garion’s continued instruction to restrain itself, slowly began to pulsate and glow in his hand, bathing ’Zakath’s face in its blue radiance. The Emperor half lifted his hand as if to push the glowing stone aside.

“Don’t touch it,” Garion warned again. “Just look.”

But ’Zakath’s eyes were already locked on the stone as its blue light grew stronger and stronger. His hands gripped the edge of the table in front of him so tightly that his knuckles grew white. For a long moment he stared into that blue incandescence. Then, slowly, his fingers lost their grip on the table edge and fell back onto the arms of his chair. An expression of agony crossed his face. “They have escaped me,” he groaned with tears welling out of his closed eyes, “and I have slaughtered tens of thousands for nothing.” The tears began to stream down his contorted face.

“I’m sorry, ’Zakath,” Garion said quietly, lowering his hand. “I can’t change what’s already happened, but you had to know the truth.”

“I cannot thank you for this truth,” ’Zakath said, his shoulders shaking in the storm of his weeping. “Leave me, Belgarion. Take that accursed stone from my sight.” Garion nodded with a great feeling of compassion and shared sorrow. Then he replaced the Orb on the pommel of his sword, re-covered the hilt, and picked up the great weapon. “I’m very sorry, ’Zakath,” he said again, and then he quietly went out of the room, leaving the Emperor of boundless Mallorea alone with his grief.

“Really, Garion, I’m perfectly fine,” Ce’Nedra objected again.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Then you’ll let me get out of bed?”

“No.”

“That’s not fair,” she pouted.

“Would you like a little more tea?” he asked, going to the fireplace, taking up a poker, and swinging out the iron arm from which a kettle was suspended.

“No, I don’t,” she replied in a sulky little voice. “It smells, and it tastes awful.”

“Aunt Pol says that it’s very good for you. Maybe if you drink some more of it, she’ll let you get out of bed and sit in a chair for a while.” He spooned some of the dried, aromatic leaves from an earthenware pot into a cup, tipped the kettle carefully with the poker, and filled the cup with steaming water.

Ce’Nedra’s eyes had momentarily come alight, but narrowed again almost immediately. “Oh, very clever, Garion,” she said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Of course not,” he agreed blandly, setting the cup on the stand beside the bed. “You probably ought to let that steep for a while,” he suggested.

“It can steep all year if it wants to. I’m not going to drink it.”

He sighed with resignation. “I’m sorry, Ce’Nedra,” he said with genuine regret, “but you’re wrong. Aunt Pol says that you’re supposed to drink a cup of this every other hour. Until she tells me otherwise, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“What if I refuse?” Her tone was belligerent.

“I’m bigger than you are,” he reminded her.

Her eyes went wide with shock. “You wouldn’t actually force me to drink it, would you?”

His expression grew mournful. “I’d really hate to do something like that,” he told her.

“But you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” she accused.

He thought about it a moment, then nodded. “Probably,” he admitted, “if Aunt Pol told me to.”

She glared at him. “All right,” she said finally. “Give me the stinking tea.”

“It doesn’t smell all that bad, Ce’Nedra.”

“Why don’t you drink it, then?”

“I’m not the one who’s been sick.”

She proceeded then to tell him—at some length—exactly what she thought of the tea and him and her bed and the room and of the whole world in general. Many of the terms she used were very colorful—even lurid—and some of them were in languages that he didn’t recognize.

“What on earth is all the shouting about?” Polgara asked, coming into the room.

“I absolutely hate this stuff!” Ce’Nedra declared at the top of her lungs, waving the cup about and spilling most of the contents.

“I wouldn’t drink it then.” Aunt Pol advised calmly.

“Garion says that if I don’t drink it, he’ll pour it down my throat.”

“Oh. Those were yesterday’s instructions.” Polgara looked at Garion. “Didn’t I tell you that they change today?”

“No,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, you didn’t.” He said it in a very level tone. He was fairly proud of that.

“I’m sorry, dear. I must have forgotten.”