Polgara, dressed in a deep blue velvet gown trimmed in silver, joined Liselle and Ce'Nedra in the candlelit circle. Her voice was as rich and smooth as the Margravine's, and yet there was in it a sorrow that went even beyond Ce'Nedra's—a sorrow for a place that had been lost and could never return again. Then, as the flute accompanied Ce'Nedra into the rising counterpoint, Polgara's rose to join hers as well. The harmony thus created was not the traditional one which was so familiar in all the Kingdoms of the West. The Arendish musicians, their eyes filled with tears, took up those strange antique chords to recreate a melody that had not been heard in thousands of years.
As the last notes of that glorious song faded, there was an awed silence. And then, many of them weeping openly, the guests burst into applause as Polgara silently led the two young women out of that golden circle of light.
Belgarath, looking somewhat unusually regal in a snowy Tolnedran mantle, but holding nonetheless a full silver goblet, stood in her path, his eyes a mystery.
"Well, father?" she asked.
Wordlessly he kissed her forehead and handed her the goblet. "Lovely, Pol, but why revive something that's been dead and gone for all these centuries?"
Her chin lifted proudly. "The memory of Vo Wacune will never die so long as I live, father. I carry it forever in my heart, and every so often I like to remind people that there was once a shining city filled with grace and courage and beauty and that this mundane world in which we now live allowed it to slip away."
"It's very painful for you, isn't it, Polgara?" he asked gravely.
"Yes, father, it is—more painful than I can say—but I've endured pain before, so. . . " She left it hanging with a slight shrug and moved with regal step from the hall.
After the banquet, Garion and Ce'Nedra took a few turns about the ballroom floor, more for the sake of appearances than out of any real desire for it.
"Why does Lady Polgara feel so strongly about the Wacite Arends?" Ce'Nedra asked as they danced.
"She lived in Vo Wacune for quite some time when she was young," Garion replied. "I think she loved the city— and the people—very much."
"I thought my heart would break when she sang that song."
"Mine nearly did," Garion said quietly. "She's suffered so very much, but I think that the destruction of Vo Wacune hurt her more than anything else that's ever happened. She's never forgiven Grandfather for not coming to the aid of the city when the Asturians destroyed it."
Ce'Nedra sighed. "There's so much sorrow in the world."
"There's hope, too," he reminded her.
"But only such a little." She sighed again. Then a sudden impish smile crossed her lips. "That song absolutely destroyed all the ladies who are here," she smirked. "Absolutely destroyed them."
"Try not to gloat in public, love," he gently chided her. "It's really not very becoming."
"Didn't Uncle Varana say that I was one of the guests of honor?"
"Well—yes."
"It's my party then," she said with a toss of her head, "so I'll gloat if I want to."
When they all returned to the set of rooms Varana had provided for their use, Silk was waiting for them, standing by the fire and warming his hands. The little man had a furtive, slightly worried look on his face, and he was covered from top to toe with reeking debris. "Where's Varana?" he asked tensely as they entered the candlelit sitting room. "He's down in the ballroom entertaining his guests," Gar-ton said.
"What have you been doing, Prince Kheldar?" Ce'Nedra asked, wrinkling her nose at the offensive odors emanating from his clothes.
"Hiding," he replied, "under a garbage heap. I think we might want to leave Tol Honeth —fairly soon."
Belgarath's eyes narrowed. "Exactly what have you been up to, Silk?" he demanded, "and where have you been for the past couple of days?"
"Here and there," Silk said evasively. "I really should go get cleaned up."
"I don't suppose you know anything about what's been happening to the Honeth family, do you?" Garion asked.
"What's this?" Belgarath said.
"I was with Varana this afternoon when Lord Morin brought the report. The Honeths have been dying at a surprising rate. Eight or ten at last count."
"Twelve, actually," Silk corrected meticulously.
Belgarath turned on the rat-faced man. "I think I'd like an explanation."
"People die," Silk shrugged. "It happens all the time."
"Did they have help?"
"A little, maybe."
"And were you the one who provided this assistance?"
"Would I do that?"
Belgarath's face grew bleak. "I want the truth, Prince Kheldar."
Silk spread his hands extravagantly. "What is truth, old friend? Can any man ever really know what the truth is?"
"This isn't a philosophical discussion, Silk. Have you been out butchering Honeths?"
"I don't know that I'd say 'butchering' exactly. That word smacks of a certain crudity. I pride myself on my refinement."
"Have you been killing people?"
"Well," Silk's face took on a slightly offended expression, "if you're going to put it that way—"
"Twelve people?" Durnik's tone was incredulous.
"And another that isn't very likely to survive," Silk noted. "I was interrupted before I had time to make sure of him, but I probably did enough to get the job done."
"I'm still waiting, Silk," Belgarath said darkly.
Silk sniffed at one rancid sleeve and made a face. "Bethra and I were very good friends." He shrugged as if that explained everything.
"But—" Durnik objected. "Didn't she try to have you killed once?"
"Oh, that. That wasn't anything important. It was business—nothing personal."
"Isn't trying to kill somebody about as personal as you can get?"
"Of course not. I was interfering with something she was working on. You see, she had this arrangement with the Thullish ambassador, and—"
"Quit trying to change the subject, Silk," Belgarath said.
Silk's eyes grew hard. "Bethra was a special woman," he replied. "Beautiful, gifted, and totally honest. I admired her very much. You could almost say that I loved her—in a rather special kind of way. The idea that someone saw fit to have her cut down in the street greatly offended me. I did what I thought was appropriate."