Guardians of the West

sort of like a personal letter -just to me?"
    "In a manner of speaking, yes."
    "What if I hadn't gotten around to reading it?"
    "Why are you reading it now?"
    "Because Belgarath told me to."
    "Why do you think Belgarath told you that?"
    "Because-" Garion broke off. You told him to say it to me?"
    "Naturally. He didn't know about it, of course, but I nudged him. All sorts of people have access to the Mrin Codex. That's why I made it so cryptic. These personal instructions to you, however, should be fairly clear -if you pay attention."
    "Why don't you just tell me what I'm supposed to do?
    "I'm not permitted to do that."
    "Permitted?"
    "We have our rules, my opposite and I. We're very carefully balanced and we have to stay that way. We agreed only to act through our instruments, and if I intervene in person -with such things as telling you directly what you must do- then my opposite will also be free to step over the line. That's why we both work through what are called prophecies."
    "Isn't that a little complicated?"
    "The alternative would be absolute chaos. My opposite and I are limitless. If we confront each other directly, whole suns will be destroyed." Garion shuddered and swallowed hard. "I didn't realize that," he admitted. Then an idea occurred to him. "Would you be permitted to tell me about that line in the Mrin Codex -the one that's got the blotted word in the middle of it?
    "That depends on how much you want to know about it."
    "What's the word under the blot?"
    "There are several words there. If you look at it in the right kind of light, you should be able to see them. As for these other books, try reading them the way I told you to. I think you'll find that it saves a lot of time -and you really don't have all that much time to spare."
    "What's that supposed to mean?"
    But the voice was gone.
    The door to the library opened, and Ce'Nedra came in, wearing her nightdress and a warm robe. "Garion," she said, "aren't you ever coming to bed?"
    "What?" He looked up. "Oh -yes. Right away."
    "Who was in here with you?"
    "Nobody. Why?"
    "I heard you talking to someone."
    "I was just reading, that's all."
    "Come to bed, Garion," she said firmly. "You can't read the whole library in one evening."
    "Yes, dear," he agreed.
    Not long after that, when spring had begun to touch the lower meadows of the slopes behind the Citadel, the promised letter from King Anheg arrived. Garion immediately took the copy of that baffling passage in the Mrin Codex to the library to compare it with his copy. When he put the two side by side, he began to swear. Anheg's copy was blotted in exactly the same place. "I told him!" Garion fumed. "I told him specifically that I needed to see that particular spot! I even showed him!" Swearing angrily, he began to pace up and down, waving both arms in the air.
    Rather surprisingly, Ce'Nedra took her husband's near obsession with the Mrin Codex in stride. Of course, the little queen's attention was almost totally riveted on her new son, and Garion was fairly certain that anything he said or did was only on the very edge of her awareness. Young Prince Geran was grossly overmothered. Ce'Nedra held him in her arms almost every minute that he was awake and frequently even when he was asleep. He was a good-natured baby and seldom cried or fussed. He took his mother's constant attention quite calmly and accepted all the cuddling and cooing and impulsive kisses with equanimity. Garion, however, felt that Ce'Nedra really overdid things just a bit. Since she insisted on holding Geran constantly, it definitely cut into the time when he might be able to hold his son. Once he almost asked her when his turn was going to come, but decided at the last minute not to. The thing that he really felt was unfair was Ce'Nedra's sense of timing. Whenever she did put Geran in his cradle for a few moments and Garion finally got the chance to pick him up, the little queen's hands seemed almost automatically to go to the buttons on the front of her dress, and she would placidly announce that it was time for Geran to nurse. Garion certainly did not begrudge his son his lunch, but the baby really didn't look all that hungry most of the time.
    After a time, however, when he finally became adjusted to Geran's undeniable presence in their lives, the call of the dim, musty library began to reassert itself. The procedure that had been suggested to him by the dry voice worked surprisingly well. After a little practice, he found that