The Ford of Kings

Garion’s boots squelched in the red mud of the Murgo ford, the sky gone leaden above the flat, smoldering hills. Water, rusty with silt, churned around his ankles, but the weight in his pocket was what threatened to pull him under. The Orb of Aldur, cocooned in a leather pouch, pulsed faint blue through the stitching. Its glow edged each drop of water, wringing color from the gray day. Garion’s hand hovered near it, swaying between dread and longing. On the bank behind, Polgara’s eyes fixed him—commanding, calm, and implacable. Beside her, Belgarath’s face was pinched with something more than worry. He was halfway across when the world changed. The Orb’s call sang in his bones, a needle of blue fire threading through his wrist. It wanted him to reach, and yet— A voice, dry as parchment and colder than the ford, slipped into his mind. Not Aldur, not the warm voice that once steadied his trembling fingers. This was older, hungrier. “Give it to me, boy.” He stumbled, water lapping at his knees now. The voice pressed harder. “You are but a vessel. The King must be chosen, not born.” Garion gritted his teeth, feeling the Orb’s pulse speed up, a heartbeat trying to become his own. He thought of ceaseless kitchen days, of Polgara’s steady hands over his, of Belgarath’s stories spun by firelight—each a thread knit into him. He was not empty. “No,” he said aloud, voice rasping. On the shore, Polgara’s lips moved in silent warning. Her gaze, sharpened by millennia, willed his hands from the pouch. “Don’t touch it, Garion,” she called, quiet but cutting through the wind. A gust sent ripples across the ford, and the Orb’s blue light flared, forming a swirling shimmer in the air. Garion felt his fingers twitch, the urge almost overwhelming. The dry voice pressed: “Any hand but yours. Any will but yours. Let me choose.” Belgarath stepped to the water’s edge, voice low, ancient. “Name your price, old one. We both know bargains.” The current pushed harder. Garion’s feet slipped, but he did not reach for the Orb. Instead, he forced his hands behind his back, gripping his own wrists. The world narrowed to the muddy water, the blue shine, and voices—some in his head, others echoing across the ford. A tremor ran through the Orb. It seemed to go slack, its song dulling. The dry voice hissed, retreating. “This is not yet ended.” Garion took three more steps, feeling the ford shallowing underfoot. The blue glow faded, replaced by the honest gray of afternoon. He was shaking, but the weight in his pocket was only a stone again. Polgara reached him first, cloak billowing. She looked him over, her eyes softening only slightly. “You didn’t touch it.” Garion nodded, still unable to trust his voice. Belgarath’s hand landed on his shoulder, steady as a mountain. “Sometimes that’s the hardest magic, boy.” Garion managed a weak smile, the Orb’s memory already receding beneath sturdy warmth and living hands. The ford was behind them. The road, and the Prophecy, waited ahead.

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