King of The Murgos

the minute I laid eyes on him."
    "Oh?"
    "The man was a Rivan, and that puts the whole thing right in the lap of King Belgarion. He's always hated the Vordues anyway, so he came up with this scheme to break their power in northern Tolnedra." He smiled bleakly. "He's getting exactly what he's got coming to him, though. They forced him to marry the Princess Ce'Nedra, and she's making his life miserable."
    "How were you able to tell that the agent was Rivan?" Silk asked curiously.
    "That's easy, Radek. The Rivans have been isolated on that island of theirs for thousands of years. They're so inbred that all kinds of defects and deformities crop up in them."
    "He was deformed?"
    The agent shook his head. "It was his eyes," he said. "They didn't have any color to them at all—absolutely white." He shuddered. "It was a chilling thing to see." He pulled his blanket tighter about his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Radek, but I'm freezing out here. I'm going back inside where it's warm. You and your friends are free to go." And with that he hurried back into the station and the warmth of his fireside.
    "Isn't that interesting?" Silk said as they rode away.
    Belgarath was frowning. "The next question is who this busy man with the white eyes is working for," he said.
    "Urvon?" Durnik suggested. "Maybe he put Harakan to work in the north and Naradas here in the south—both of them trying to stir up as much turmoil as possible."
    "Maybe," Belgarath grunted, "but then again maybe not."
    "My dear Prince Kheldar," Ce'Nedra said, pushing back the hood of her cloak with one mittened hand, "what exactly was the purpose of all that cringing and sniveling?"
    "Characterization, Ce'Nedra," he replied airily. "Radek of Boktor was a pompous, arrogant ass—as long as he was rich. Now that he's poor, he's gone the other way entirely. It's the nature of the man."
    "But, there isn't any such person as Radek of Boktor."
    "Of course there is. You just saw him. Radek of Boktor exists in the memories of people all over this part of the world. In many ways he's even more real than that bloated time-server back there."
    "But he's you. You just made him up."
    "Certainly I did, and I'm really rather proud of him. His existence, his background, and his entire life history are a matter of public record. He's as real as you are."
    "That doesn't make sense at all, Silk," she protested.
    "That's because you aren't Drasnian, Ce'Nedra."
    They reached Tol Honeth several days later. The white marble Imperial City gleamed in the frosty winter sunshine, and the legionnaires standing guard at the carved bronze gates were as crisp and burnished as always. As Garion and his friends clattered across the marble-paved bridge to the gate, the officer in charge of the guard detachment took one look at Ce'Nedra and banged his clenched fist on his polished breastplate in salute. "Your Imperial Highness," he greeted her. "If we had known you were approaching, we would have sent out an escort."
    "That's all right, Captain," she replied in a tired little voice. "Do you suppose you could send one of your men on ahead of us to the palace to advise the Emperor that we're here?"
    "At once, your Imperial Highness," he said, saluting again and standing aside to let them pass.
    "I just wish that someday somebody in Tolnedra would remember that you're married," Garion muttered, feeling a bit surly about it.
    "What was that, dear?" Ce'Nedra asked.
    "Can't they get it through their heads that you're the Queen of Riva now? Every time one of them calls you 'Your Imperial Highness,' it makes me feel like some kind of hanger-on—or a servant of some sort."
    "Aren't you being a little oversensitive, Garion?"
    He grunted sourly, still feeling just a bit offended.
    The avenues of Tol Honeth were broad and faced with the proud, lofty houses of the Tolnedran elite. Columns and statuary abounded on the fronts of those residences in vast, ostentatious display, and the richly garbed merchant princes in the streets were bedecked with jewels beyond price. Silk looked at them as he rode past and then ruefully down at his own shabby, threadbare garments. He sighed bitterly.
    "More characterization, Radek?" Aunt Polgara asked him.
    "Only in part," he replied. "Of course Radek would be envious, but I have to admit that I do sort of miss my own finery."
    "How on earth do you keep all these fictitious people straight?"
    "Concentration, Polgara," he said, "concentration. You can't succeed at any game if you don't