The Malloreon: Book 05 - Seeress of Kell

by David Eddings

  Garion looked quickly. The light was still dim and indistinct, but it was like no other light he had ever seen.

  ‘The time for the Choice hath come, Cyradis,’ Zandramas said, her voice cruel. ‘Choose!’

  ‘I cannot!’ the Seeress wailed, turning toward the growing light. ‘Not yet! I’m not ready yet!’ She stumbled across the floor, wringing her hands. ‘I’m not ready! I can’t choose! Send another!’

  ‘Choose!’ Zandramas repeated implacably.

  ‘If only I could see them!’ Cyradis sobbed. ‘If only I could see them!’

  And then at last, Polgara moved. ‘That’s easily arranged, Cyradis,’ she said in a calm and oddly comforting tone. ‘Your vision has clouded your sight, that’s all.’ She reached out and gently removed the blindfold. ‘Look then with human eyes and make your choice.’

  ‘That is forbidden!’ Zandramas protested shrilly as her advantage crumbled.

  ‘No,’ Polgara said. ‘If it were forbidden, I would not have been able to do it.’

  Cyradis had flinched back from even the faint light in the grotto. ‘I cannot!’ she cried, covering her eyes with her hands. ‘I cannot!’

  Zandramas’ eyes came suddenly alight. ‘I triumph!’ she exulted. ‘The Choice must be made, but now will it be made by another. It no longer lieth in the hands of Cyradis, for the decision not to choose is also a choice.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Garion quickly asked Beldin.

  ‘There are two schools of thought on that.’

  ‘Yes or no, Beldin.’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t, Garion.’

  There was suddenly a soundless burst of intense light from the mouth of the passageway leading to the outside. Brighter than the sun, the light swelled and grew. It was so impossibly intense that even the cracks between the stones in the grotto blazed incandescently.

  ‘It has come at last,’ Garion’s inner companion said unemotionally through Eriond’s lips. ‘It is the instant of the Choice. Choose, Cyradis, lest all be destroyed.’

  ‘It has come,’ another equally unemotional voice spoke through the lips of Garion’s son. ‘It is the instant of the Choice. Choose, Cyradis, lest all be destroyed.’

  Cyradis swayed, torn by indecision, her eyes darting back and forth to the two faces before her. Again she wrung her hands.

  ‘She cannot!’ the Emperor of Mallorea exclaimed, starting forward impulsively.

  ‘She must!’ Garion said, catching his friend’s arm. ‘If she doesn’t, everything will be lost!’

  Again the eyes of Zandramas filled with that unholy joy. ‘It is too much for her!’ the priestess almost crowed. ‘Thou hast made thy choice, Cyradis,’ she cried. ‘It cannot be unmade. Now will I make the Choice for thee, and I will be exalted when the Dark God comes again!’

  And that may have been Zandramas’ last and fatal error. Cyradis straightened and, eyes flashing, she looked full into the starry face of the sorceress. ‘Not so, Zandramas,’ the Seeress said in an icy voice. ‘What passed before was indecision, not choice, and the moment hath not yet passed.’ She lifted her beautiful face and closed her eyes. The vast chorus of the Seers of Kell swelled its organ note in the tight confines of the grotto, but it ended on a questioning note.

  ‘Then the decision is wholly mine,’ Cyradis said. ‘Are all the conditions met?’ She addressed the question to the two awarenesses standing unseen behind Eriond and Geran.

  ‘They are,’ the one said from Eriond’s lips.

  ‘They are,’ the other said from Geran’s.

  ‘Then hear my Choice,’ she said. Once again she looked full into the faces of the little boy and the young man. Then with a cry of inhuman despair, she fell into Eriond’s arms. ‘I choose thee!’ she wept. ‘For good or for ill, I choose thee!’

  There was a titanic lateral lurch – not an earthquake certainly, for not one single pebble was dislodged from the walls or ceiling of the grotto. For some reason, Garion was positive that the entire world had moved – inches perhaps, or yards or even thousands of leagues – to one side. And as a corollary to that certainty, he was equally sure that the same movement had been universal. The amount of power Cyradis’ agonized decision had released was beyond human comprehension.

  Gradually, the blazing light diminished somewhat, and the Sardion’s glow became wan and sickly. In the instant of the Choice of the Seeress of Kell, Zandramas had shrunk back, and the whirling lights beneath the skin of her face seemed to flicker. Then they began to whirl and to glow more and more brightly. ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘No!’

  ‘Perhaps these lights in thy flesh are thine exaltation, Zandramas,’ Poledra said. ‘Even now it may be that thou wilt shine brighter than any constellation. Well hast thou served the Prophecy of Dark, and it may yet find some way to exalt thee.’ Then Garion’s grandmother crossed the grotto floor to the satin-robed sorceress.

  Zandramas shrank back even more. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said.

  ‘It is not thee I would touch, Zandramas, but thy raiment. I would see thee receive thy reward and thine exaltation.’ Poledra tore back the satin hood and ripped the black robe away. Zandramas made no attempt to conceal her nakedness, for indeed, there was no nakedness. She was now no more than a faint outline, a husk filled with swirling, sparkling light that grew brighter and brighter.

  Geran ran on sturdy little legs to his mother’s arms, and Ce’Nedra, weeping with joy, enfolded him and held him close to her. ‘Is anything going to happen to him?’ Garion demanded of Eriond. ‘He’s the Child of Dark, after all.’

  ‘There is no Child of Dark any more, Garion,’ Eriond answered the question. ‘Your son is safe.’

  Garion felt an enormous wave of relief. Then, something which he had felt since the moment in which Cyradis had made her choice began to intrude itself increasingly upon his awareness. It was that overwhelming sense of presence which he had always felt when he had come face to face with a God. He looked more closely at Eriond, and that sense grew stronger. His young friend even looked different. Before, he had appeared to be a young man of probably not much over twenty. Now he appeared to be about the same age as Garion, although his face seemed strangely ageless. His expression, which before had been sweetly innocent, had now become grave and even wise. ‘We have one last thing to do here, Belgarion,’ he said in a solemn tone. He motioned Zakath and then gently placed the still-weeping Cyradis into the Mallorean’s arms. ‘Take care of her, please,’ he said.

  ‘For all of my life, Eriond,’ Zakath promised, leading the sobbing girl back to the others.

  ‘Now, Belgarion,’ Eriond continued, ‘give me my brother’s Orb from off the hilt of Iron-grip’s sword. It’s time to finish what was started here.’

  ‘Of course,’ Garion replied. He reached back over his shoulder and put his hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Come off,’ he told the Orb. The stone came free in his hand, and he held it out to the young God.

  Eriond took the glowing blue stone and turned to look at the Sardion and then down at the Orb in his hand. There was something inexplicable in his face as he looked at the two stones that were at the center of all division. He raised his face for a moment, his expression now serene. ‘So be it then,’ he said finally.

  And then to Garion’s horror, he gripped the Orb even more tightly and pushed his hand quite deliberately, Orb and all, into the glowing Sardion.

  The reddish stone seemed to flinch. Like Ctuchik in his last moment, it first expanded, then contracted. Then it expanded one last time. And then, like Ctuchik, it exploded – and yet that explosion was tightly confined, enclosed somehow within some unimaginable globe of force that came perhaps from Eriond’s will or from the power of the Orb or from some other source. Garion knew that had that force not been in place, all the world would have been torn apart by what was happening in this tightly confined place.

  Even though it was partially muffled by Eriond’s immortal and indestructable body, the concussion was titanic, and they were
all hurled to the floor by its force. Rocks and pebbles rained down from the ceiling, and the entire pyramidal islet which was all that was left of Korim shuddered in an earthquake even more powerful than that which had destroyed Rak Cthol. Confined within the grotto, the sound was beyond belief. Without thinking, Garion rolled across the surging floor to cover Ce’Nedra and Geran with his armored body, noting as he did so that many of his companions were also protecting loved ones in the same fashion.

  The earth continued its convulsive shuddering, and what lay confined on the altar now with Eriond’s hand still buried within it was no longer the Sardion but an intense ball of energy a thousand times brighter than the sun.

  Then Eriond, his face still calm, removed the Orb from the center of the incandescent ball which once had been the Sardion. As if the removal of Aldur’s Orb had also removed the constraint which had held the Sardion in one shape and place, the blazing fragments of Cthrag Sardius blasted upward through the roof of the grotto, ripping the top off the shuddering pyramid and sending the huge stone blocks out in all directions as if they were no more than pebbles.

  The suddenly revealed sky was filled with a light brighter than the sun, a light which extended from horizon to horizon. The fragments of the Sardion streamed upward to lose themselves in that light.

  Zandramas wailed, an inhuman, animal-like sound. The faint outline which was all that was left of her was writhing, twisting. ‘No!’ she cried, ‘It cannot be! You promised!’ Garion did not know, could not know, to whom she spoke. She extended her hands to Eriond in supplication. ‘Help me, God of Angarak!’ she cried. ‘Do not let me fall into the hands of Mordja or the foul embrace of the King of Hell! Save me!’

  And then her shadowy husk split apart, and the swirling lights which had become her substance streamed inexorably upward to follow the fragments of the Sardion into that vast light in the sky.

  What was left of the Sorceress of Darshiva fell to the floor like a discarded garment, shriveled and tattered like a rag no longer of any use to anyone.

  The voice which came from Eriond’s lips was very familiar to Garion. He had been listening to it for all his life.

  ‘Point,’ it said in a detached, emotionless tone, as if merely stating a fact. ‘Point and game.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE SUDDEN SILENCE in the grotto was almost eerie. Garion rose and helped Ce’Nedra to her feet. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her, his voice hushed. Ce’Nedra nodded absently. She was examining their little boy, a look of concern on her smudged face. Garion looked around. ‘Is everyone all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that earthquake finished yet?’ Silk demanded, still covering Velvet’s body with his own.

  ‘It’s passed, Kheldar,’ Eriond told him. The young God turned and gravely handed the Orb back to Garion.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to keep it?’ Garion asked Him. ‘I thought—’

  ‘No, Garion. You’re still the Guardian of the Orb.’

  For some reason, that made Garion feel better. Even in the midst of what had just happened, he had felt an empty sense of loss. Somehow he had become convinced that he would be obliged to give up the jewel now. Covetousness was not a part of Garion’s nature, but over the years the Orb had become more a friend than a possession.

  ‘May we not go forth from this place?’ Cyradis asked, her voice filled with a deep sadness. ‘I would not leave my dear companion alone and untended.’

  Durnik touched her shoulder gently, and then they all turned and silently left the shattered grotto.

  They emerged from the portal into the light which was more than the light of day. The intense brilliance which had even penetrated the dim grotto behind them had faded to the point where it was no longer blinding. Garion looked around. Though the time of day was certainly different, there was that peculiar sense that he had been through all of this before. The storm and lightning which had raged over the Place Which Is No More had passed. The clouds had rolled back, and the wind which had swept the reef during the fight with the dragon and the demon Mordja had subsided to a gentle breeze. Following the death of Torak at Cthol Mishrak, Garion had felt in a strange way that he had been witnessing the dawn of the first day. Now it was noon – years later, to be sure – but somehow the noon of that self-same day. What had begun at Cthol Mishrak was only now complete. It was over, and he felt a vast sense of relief. He also felt a bit light-headed. The emotional and physical energy he had expended since the first light of this most momentous of days had crept slowly over a fog bound sea had left him weak and near to exhaustion. More than anything right now he wanted to get out of his armor, but the thought of the amount of effort that would cost made him almost quail. He settled for wearily removing his helmet. He looked around again at the faces of his friends.

  Although Geran could obviously walk now, Ce’Nedra had insisted on carrying him, and she kept her cheek pressed tightly to his, pulling back only long enough to kiss him from time to time. Geran did not seem to mind.

  Zakath had placed his arm about the shoulders of the Seeress of Kell, and the look on his face rather clearly indicated that he had no real intention of ever removing it. Garion remembered with a smile how, in the first moments of their openly avowed love for each other, Ce’Nedra had continually wormed her way into a very similar embrace. He walked wearily over to where Eriond stood looking out across the sun-splashed waves. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, Garion.’

  Garion looked pointedly at Zakath and Cyradis. ‘Is that more or less a part of the way things are supposed to be?’ he asked. ‘What I’m getting at is that Zakath lost someone very dear to him when he was young. If he loses Cyradis now, it might destroy him. I wouldn’t want that to happen.’

  ‘Put your mind at rest, Garion,’ Eriond smiled. ‘Nothing will separate those two. It’s one of the things that are pre-ordained.’

  ‘Good. Do they know?’

  ‘Cyradis does. She’ll explain it to Zakath in time.’

  ‘She’s still a seeress then?’

  ‘No. That part of her life ended when Polgara removed her blindfold. She has looked into the future, though, and Cyradis has a very good memory.’

  Garion thought about that for a moment, and then his eyes opened very wide. ‘Are you trying to say that the fate of the entire universe depended on the choice of an ordinary human being?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘I’d hardly call Cyradis ordinary. She’s been preparing for that choice since infancy. But in a way you’re right. The Choice had to be made by a human being, and it had to be made without any help. Not even her own people could help Cyradis at that moment.’

  Garion shuddered. ‘That must have been terrifying for her. She had to have been desperately lonely.’

  ‘She was, but the people who make choices always are.’

  ‘She didn’t just select at random, did she?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t really choosing between your son and me, though. She was choosing between the Light and the Dark.’

  ‘I can’t see where all the difficulty was then. Doesn’t everybody prefer the light to the dark?’

  ‘You and I might, but the Seers have always known that Light and Dark are simply opposite sides of the same thing. Don’t worry too much about Zakath and Cyradis, Garion,’ Eriond said, returning to the original subject. He tapped his forehead with one finger. ‘Our mutual friend here has made a few arrangements about those two. Zakath’s going to be very important for most of the rest of his life, and our friend has a way of encouraging people to do necessary things by rewarding them – sometimes in advance.’

  ‘Like Relg and Taiba?’

  ‘Or you and Ce’Nedra – or Polgara and Durnik for that matter.’

  ‘Can you tell me what it is that Zakath’s supposed to do? What could you possibly need from him?’

  ‘He’s going to complete what you started.’

  ‘Wasn’t I doing it right?’

  ‘Of
course you were, but you’re not an Angarak. You’ll understand in time, I think. It’s not really very complicated.’

  A thought came to Garion, and in the instant it emerged he was sure it was absolutely correct. ‘You knew all along, didn’t you? Who you really are, I mean.’

  ‘I knew that the potential was there. It didn’t really happen until Cyradis made the Choice, though.’ He looked over to where the others were sadly gathering around Toth’s still form. ‘I think they need us now,’ he said.

  Toth’s face was in repose, and his hands, folded across his chest, covered the wound Cthrek Goru had made when Mordja had killed him. Cyradis stood enfolded in Zakath’s arms, her face wet with new tears.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right idea?’ Beldin asked Durnik.

  ‘Yes,’ the smith said simply. ‘You see—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain it, Durnik,’ the hunchback told him. ‘I just wanted to know if you’re sure. Let’s build a litter for him. It has more dignity.’ He made a brief gesture, and a number of smooth, straight poles and a coil of rope appeared beside Toth’s body. The two of them carefully lashed the poles together to form a litter and then lifted the mute’s massive body onto it. ‘Belgarath,’ Beldin said, ‘Garion, we’ll need some help here.’

  Although any one of them could have translocated Toth’s body into the grotto, the four sorcerers chose instead to carry it to its final resting place in a ceremony as old as mankind.

  Since the upward explosion of the Sardion had unroofed the grotto, the noon sun filled the formerly dim cave with light. Cyradis quailed slightly when she saw the grim altar upon which the Sardion had lain. ‘It seemeth to me so dark and ugly,’ she mourned in a small voice.

  ‘It isn’t really very attractive, is it? Ce’Nedra said critically. She turned to look at Eriond. ‘Do You suppose—?’

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed. He glanced only briefly at the roughly squared-off altar. It blurred slightly and then became a smooth bier of snowy-white marble.