Queen of Sorcery

eye fixed in awed fascination on the tree. Mister Wolf held out both hands and turned them until the palms were up. He spoke again, and the tips of the branches swelled and began to bud. Then the tree burst into flower, its blossoms a delicate pink and white.
    "Apple, wouldn't you say, Pol?" Wolf asked over his shoulder.
    "It appears to be, father," she replied.
    He patted the tree fondly and then turned back to the dark-haired knight who had sunk, white-faced and trembling, to his knees. "Well, Sir Andorig," he inquired, "what do you believe now?"
    "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 stainedglass 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 goldembroidered 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