Queen of Sorcery

reason of this trial at arms:"
    "Truly," the king agreed. "My only regret is that thy enthusiasm in pursuing this cause hath deprived us of the opportunity to probe more deeply into the full extent of Nachak's duplicity."
    "I expect that the plots he hatched will dry up once word of what happened here gets around," Mister Wolf observed.
    "Perhaps so," the king acknowledged. "I would have pursued the matter further, however. I would know if this villainy was Nachak's own or if I must look beyond him to Taur Urgas himself." He frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head as if to put certain dark speculations aside. "Arendia stands in thy debt, Ancient Belgarath. This brave company of throe hath forestalled the renewal of a war best forgotten." He looked sadly at the blood-smeared floor and the bodies littering it. "My throne room hath become as a battlefield. The curse of Arendia extends even here." He sighed. "Have it cleansed," he ordered shortly and turned his head so that he would not have to watch the grim business of cleaning up.
    The nobles and ladies began to buzz as the dead were removed and the polished stone floor was quickly mopped to remove the pools of sticky blood.
    "Good fight," Barak commented as he carefully wiped his axe blade.
    "I am in thy debt, Lord Barak," Mandorallen said gravely. "Thy aid was fortuitous."
    Barak shrugged. "It seemed appropriate."
    Hettar rejoined them, his expression one of grim satisfaction.
    "You did a nice job on Nachak," Barak complimented him.
    "I've had a lot of practice," Hettar answered. "Murgos always seem to make that same mistake when they get into a fight. I think there's a gap in their training somewhere."
    "That's a shame, isn't it?" Barak suggested with vast insincerity.
    Garion moved away from them. Although he knew it was irrational, he nevertheless felt a keen sense of personal responsibility for the carnage he had just witnessed. The blood and violent death had come about as the result of his words. Had he not spoken, men who were now dead would still be alive. No matter how justified -how necessary - his speaking out had been, he still suffered the pangs of guilt. He did not at the moment trust himself to speak with his friends. More than anything he wished that he could talk with Aunt Pol, but she had not yet returned to the throne room, and so he was left to wrestle alone with his wounded conscience.
    He reached one of the embrasures formed by the buttresses along the south wall of the throne room and stood alone in somber reflection until a girl, perhaps two years older than he, glided across the floor toward him, her stiff, crimson brocade gown rustling. The girl's hair was dark, even black, and her skin was creamy. Her bodice was cut quite low, and Garion found some difficulty in finding a safe place for his eyes as she bore down on him.
    "I would add my thanks to the thanks of all Arendia, Lord Garion," she breathed at him. Her voice was vibrant with all kinds of emotions, none of which Garion understood. "Thy timely revelation of the Murgo's plotting hath in truth saved the life of our sovereign."
    Garion felt a certain warmth at that. "I didn't do all that much, my lady," he replied with a somewhat insincere attempt at modesty. "My friends did all the fighting."
    "But it was thy brave denunciation which uncovered the foul plot," she persisted, "and virgins will sing of the nobility with which thou protected the identity of thy nameless and misguided friend."
    Virgin was not a word with which Garion was prepared to deal. He blushed and floundered helplessly.
    "Art thou in truth, noble Garion, the grandson of Eternal Belgarath?"
    "The relationship is a bit more distant. We simplify it for the sake of convenience."
    "But thou art in his direct line?" she persisted, her violet eyes glowing.
    "He tells me I am."
    "Is the Lady Polgara perchance thy mother?"
    "My aunt."
    "A close kinship nonetheless," she approved warmly, her hand coming to rest lightly on his wrist. "Thy blood, Lord Garion, is the noblest in the world. Tell me, art thou perchance as yet unbetrothed?"
    Garion blinked at her, his ears growing suddenly redder.
    "Ah, Garion," Mandorallen boomed in his hearty voice, striding into the awkward moment, "I had been seeking thee. Wilt thou excuse us, Countess?"
    The young lady shot Mandorallen a look filled with sheer venom, but the knight's firm hand was already drawing Garion away.
    "We will speak again, Lord Garion," she called after him.
    "I hope