Enchanters' End Game

by David Eddings

  And then the light grew so intense that Garion could no longer look at it. When it subsided, and when Garion looked back at the bier, the Gods and the body of Torak were gone. Only the Orb remained, glowing slightly as it lay on the rough stone.

  Errand, once again with that confident look, went to the bier. Standing on his tiptoes, he reached across the block to retrieve the glowing stone. Then he carried it to Garion. ‘Errand, Belgarion,’ he said firmly, handing the Orb back, and in their touch as the Orb exchanged hands, Garion felt something profoundly different.

  Drawn together by what had happened, the little group silently gathered about Aunt Pol and Durnik. To the east, the sky had begun to lighten, and the rosy blush of dawn touched the few last remaining tatters of the cloud that had covered Cthol Mishrak. The events of the dreadful night had been titanic, but now the night was nearly over, and they stood together, not speaking as they watched the dawn.

  The storm that had raged through the long night had passed. For years beyond counting, the universe had been divided against itself, but now it was one again. If there were such things as beginnings, this was a beginning. And so it was, through broken cloud, that the sun rose on the morning of the first day.

  Epilogue

  THE ISLE OF THE WINDS

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Belgarion of Riva slept very fitfully the night before his wedding. Had he and Ce’Nedra been married in some simple, private little ceremony shortly after his meeting with Torak, things might have gone more smoothly. At that time both he and his flightly little princess had been too tired and too overwhelmed by the events which had taken place to be anything but absolutely honest with each other. During those few short days he had found her to be almost a different person. She had watched his every move with a kind of patient adoration, and she was forever touching him – his hair, his face, his arms – her fingers gentle and curious. The peculiar way she had of coming up to him, no matter who was present or what was going on, and worming her way into the circle of his arm had been, on the whole, rather nice.

  Those days had not, however, lasted. Once she had reassured herself that he was all right and that he was really there and not some figment of her imagination which might be snatched away at any moment, Ce’Nedra had gradually changed. He felt somehow like a possession; following her initial delight in ownership, his princess had rather deliberately embarked upon some grand plan of alteration.

  And now the day upon which her possession of him was to be formalized was only hours away. His sleep came in fits and starts with dreams mingling peculiarly with memories as he dipped in and out of sleep like a sea bird skimming across the waves.

  He was at Faldor’s farm again. Even in his sleep he could hear the ringing of Durnik’s hammer and smell the odors coming from Aunt Pol’s kitchen. Rundorig was there – and Zubrette – and Doroon – and there was Brill, creeping around a corner. He half-woke and turned restlessly in the royal bed. That wasn’t possible. Doroon was dead, drowned in the River Mardu, and Brill had vanished for ever over the parapet of mile-high Rak Cthol.

  And then he was in the palace at Sthiss Tor, and Salmissra, her blatant nudity glowing through her filmy gown, was touching his face with her cold fingers.

  But Salmissra was no longer a woman. He had watched her himself as she had changed into a serpent.

  Grul the Eldrak hammered at the frozen ground with his iron-shod club, bellowing, ‘Come ‘Grat, fight!’ and Ce’Nedra was screaming.

  In the chaotic world of dreams half-mixed with memories he saw Ctuchik, his face contorted with horror, exploding once more into nothingness in the hanging turret at Rak Cthol.

  And then he stood once again in the decaying ruin of Cthol Mishrak, his sword ablaze, and watched as Torak raised his arms to the rolling cloud, weeping tears of fire, and once again he heard the stricken God’s final cry, ‘Mother!’

  He stirred, half-rousing and shuddering as he always did when that dream recurred, but dipped almost immediately into sleep again.

  He was standing on the deck of Barak’s ship just off the Mallorean coast, listening as King Anheg explained why Barak was chained to the mast.

  ‘We had to do it, Belgarath,’ the coarse-faced monarch said mournfully. ‘Right during the middle of that storm, he turned into a bear! He drove the crew to row toward Mallorea all night long, and then, just before daybreak, he turned back into a man again.’

  ‘Unchain him, Anheg,’ Belgarath said disgustedly. ‘He’s not going to turn into a bear again – not as long as Garion’s safe and well.’

  Garion rolled over and sat up. That had been a startling revelation. There had been a purpose behind Barak’s periodic alterations.

  ‘You’re Garion’s defender,’ Belgarath had explained to the big man. ‘That’s why you were born. Any time Garion was in mortal danger, you changed into a bear in order to protect him.’

  ‘You mean to say that I’m a sorcerer?’ Barak had demanded incredulously.

  ‘Hardly. The shape-change isn’t all that difficult, and you didn’t do it consciously. The Prophecy did the work, not you.’

  Barak had spent the rest of the voyage back to Mishrak ac Thull trying to come up with a tastefully understated way to add that concept to his coat of arms.

  Garion climbed out of his high, canopied bed and went to the window. The stars in the spring sky looked down at the sleeping city of Riva and at the dark waters of the Sea of the Winds beyond the harbor. There was no sign that dawn was anywhere near yet. Garion sighed, poured himself a drink of water from the pitcher on the table, and went back to bed and his troubled sleep.

  He was at Thull Zelik, and Hettar and Mandorallen were reporting on the activities of ‘Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor. ‘He’s laying siege to Rak Goska right now,’ hawk-faced Hettar was saying. There had been a peculiar softening in Hettar’s face since Garion had last seen him, as if something very significant had happened. The tall Algar turned to Garion. ‘Eventually you’re going to have to do something about ‘Zakath,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you want him roaming around at will in this part of the world.’

  ‘Why me?’ Garion asked without thinking.

  ‘You’re Overlord of the West, remember?’

  Once again Garion awoke. Sooner or later he would have to deal with ‘Zakath; there was no question about that. Maybe after the wedding, he’d have time to consider the matter. That thought, however, stopped him. Strangely, he had no conception of anything that might happen after the wedding. It stood before him like some huge door that led into a place he had never been. ‘Zakath would have to wait. Garion had to get through the wedding first.

  Half asleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, Garion relived a significant little exchange between himself and her Imperial Highness.

  ‘It’s stupid, Ce’Nedra,’ he was protesting. ‘I’m not going to fight anybody, so why should I ride in waving my sword?’

  ‘They deserve to see you, Garion,’ she explained as if talking to a child. ‘They left their homes and rode into battle at your summons.’

  ‘I didn’t summon anybody.’

  ‘I did it in your behalf. They’re a very good army, really, and I raised them all by myself. Aren’t you proud of me?’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You were too proud to ask. That’s one of your failings, Garion. You must never be too proud to ask the people who love you for help. Every man in the army loves you. They followed me because of you. Is it too much trouble for the great Overlord of the West to reward his faithful soldiers with just a little bit of a display of appreciation? Or have you become too grand and lofty for simple gratitude?’

  ‘You’re twisting things, Ce’Nedra. You do that a lot, you know.’

  But Ce’Nedra had already moved on as if the entire matter were settled. ‘And of course you will wear your crown – and some nice armor. I think a mail shirt would be appropriate.’

  ‘I’m not going to make a clown of
myself just to satisfy your urges toward cheap theatricality.’

  Her eyes filled. Her lower lip trembled. ‘You don’t love me any more,’ she accused him in a quavering little voice.

  Garion groaned even in his sleep. It always came down to that. She won every single argument with that artful bit of deception. He knew it was not genuine. He knew that she only did it to get her own way, but he was absolutely defenseless against it. It might have nothing whatsoever to do with the matter under discussion, but she always managed to twist things around until she could unleash that devastating accusation, and all hope of his winning even the smallest point was immediately lost. Where had she learned to be so heartlessly dishonest?

  And so it was that Garion, dressed in mail, wearing his crown and self-consciously holding his flaming sword aloft, had ridden into the forts atop the eastern escarpment to the thunderous cheers of Ce’Nedra’s army.

  So much had happened since Garion and Silk and Belgarath had crept from the citadel at Riva the previous spring. The young king lay musing in his high, canopied bed, having almost given up on sleep. Ce’Nedra had in fact raised an army. As he had heard more of the details, he had been more and more astonished – not only by her audacity but also by the enormous amount of energy and sheer will she had expended in the process. She had been guided and assisted, certainly, but the initial concept had been hers. His admiration for her was tinged slightly with apprehension. He was going to marry a very strong-minded young woman – and one who was not overly troubled by scruples.

  He rolled over and punched at his pillow, hoping somehow by that familiar act to bring on more normal sleep, but once again he slipped into restless dreaming. Relg and Taiba were walking toward him, and they were holding hands!

  And then he was at the Stronghold, sitting at Adara’s bedside. His beautiful cousin was even paler than he remembered, and she had a persistent, racking cough. Even as the two of them talked, Aunt Pol was taking steps to remedy the last complications of the wound which had so nearly claimed the girl’s life.

  ‘I was mortified, of course,’ Adara was saying. ‘I’d taken so much care to conceal it from him, and now I’d gone and blurted it out to him, and I wasn’t even dying.’

  ‘Hettar?’ Garion said again. He’d already said it three times.

  ‘If you don’t stop that, Garion, I’m going to be cross with you,’ Adara said quite firmly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized quickly. ‘It’s just that I’ve never considered him in that light. He’s a good friend, but I never thought of him as particularly loveable. He’s so – I don’t know – implacable, I suppose.’

  ‘I have certain reasons to believe that may change,’ Adara said with a faint blush. Then she began to cough again.

  ‘Drink this, dear,’ Aunt Pol ordered, coming to the bedside with a fuming cup.

  ‘It’s going to taste awful,’ Garion warned his cousin.

  ‘That will do, Garion,’ Aunt Pol told him. ‘I can manage this without the helpful comments.’

  And then he was in the caves beneath Prolgu, standing beside Relg as the Gorim performed the simple ceremony uniting the zealot and the Marag woman who had so totally changed Relg’s life. Garion sensed another presence in the underground chamber, and he wondered if anyone had yet told Relg about the bargain that had been struck in Cthol Mishrak. He’d thought about saying something himself, but had decided against it. All things considered, it might be best to let Relg adjust to one thing at a time. Marriage to Taiba was probably going to be enough of a shock to the fanatic’s system for now. Garion could feel Mara’s gloating exultation as the ceremony concluded. The weeping God no longer wept.

  It was useless, Garion decided. He was not going to be able to sleep – at least not the kind of sleep that would do him any good. He threw off the covers and pulled on his robe. The fire in his fireplace had been banked for the night, and he stirred it up again. Then he sat in the chair in front of it, staring pensively into the dancing flames.

  Even if his wedding to Ce’Nedra had taken place immediately upon their arrival back at Riva, things might still have turned out all right, but the arrangements for a royal wedding of this magnitude were far too complex to be made overnight, and many of those who were to be honored guests were still recuperating from wounds received during the battle of Thull Mardu.

  The interim had given Ce’Nedra time to embark upon a full-blown plan of modification. She had, it appeared, a certain concept of him – some ideal which only she could perceive – and she was absolutely determined to cram him into that mold despite all his objections and protests. Nothing could make her relent in her singleminded drive to make him over. It was so unfair. He was quite content to accept her exactly as she was. She had her flaws – many of them – but he was willing to take the good with the bad. Why couldn’t she extend him the same courtesy? But each time he tried to put his foot down and absolutely refuse one of her whims, her eyes would fill with tears, her lip would tremble, and the fatal, ‘You don’t love me any more,’ would drop quaveringly upon him. Belgarion of Riva had considered flight several times during that long winter.

  Now it was spring again, and the storms which isolated the Isle of the Winds during the winter months were past. The day which Garion felt would never come had suddenly rushed upon him. Today was the day in which he would take the Imperial Princess Ce’Nedra to wife, and it was too late to run.

  He knew that if he brooded about it much longer, he’d push himself over the edge into total panic, and so he stood up and quickly dressed himself in plain tunic and hose, ignoring the more ostentatious garments which his valet – at Ce’Nedra’s explicit instructions – had laid out for him.

  It was about an hour before daylight as the young king of Riva opened the door to the royal apartment and slipped into the silent corridor outside.

  He wandered for a time through the dim, empty halls of the Citadel, and then, inevitably, his undirected steps led him to Aunt Pol’s door. She was already awake and seated by her fire with a cup of fragrant tea in her hands. She wore a deep blue dressing gown, and her dark hair flowed down across her shoulders in a lustrous wave.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she noted.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘You should have. You have a very full day ahead of you.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He sat in the carved chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Everything’s changing, Aunt Pol,’ he said after a moment of thoughtful silence. ‘After today, nothing will ever be the same again, will it?’

  ‘Probably not,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it will be a change for the worse.’

  ‘How do you feel about the idea of getting married?’

  ‘A bit nervous,’ she admitted calmly.

  ‘You?’

  ‘I’ve never been married before either, Garion.’

  Something had been bothering him about that. ‘Was it really such a good idea, Aunt Pol?’ he asked her. ‘I mean, arranging to have you and Durnik get married on the same day as Ce’Nedra and I? What I’m trying to say is that you’re the most important woman in the world. Shouldn’t your wedding be a special occasion?’

  ‘That was what we were trying to avoid, Garion,’ she replied. ‘Durnik and I decided that we wanted our wedding to be private, and we hope that it will be lost in all the confusion and ceremony that’s going to surround yours.’

  ‘How is he? I haven’t seen him for several days now.’

  ‘He’s still a bit strange. I don’t think he’ll ever be the same man we all knew.’

  ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ Garion’s question was concerned.

  ‘He’s fine, Garion. He’s just a bit different, that’s all. Something happened to him that’s never happened to any other man, and it changed him. He’s as practical as ever, but now he looks at the other side of things as well. I think I rather like t
hat.’

  ‘Do you really have to leave Riva?’ he asked suddenly. ‘You and Durnik could stay here in the Citadel.’

  ‘We want our own place, Garion,’ she told him. ‘We need to be alone with each other. Besides, if I were here, every time you and Ce’Nedra had a squabble, I’d have one or both of you hammering on my door. I’ve done my best to raise you two. Now you’re going to have to work things out on your own.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘To the Vale. My mother’s cottage is still standing there. It’s a very solid house. All it needs is new thatching on the roof and new doors and windows. Durnik will know how to take care of that, and it will be a good place for Errand to grow up.’

  ‘Errand? You’re taking him with you?’

  ‘Someone has to care for him, and I’ve grown used to having a small boy around. Besides, father and I’ve decided that we’d like for him to be some distance from the Orb. He’s still the only one beside you who can touch it. Someone at some time might seize upon that and try to use him in the same way Zedar did.’

  ‘What’d be the point? I mean, Torak’s gone now. What good would the Orb do anybody else?’

  She looked at him very gravely, and the white lock of her brow seemed to glow in the soft light. ‘I don’t believe that was the only reason for the Orb’s existence, Garion,’ she told him seriously. ‘Something hasn’t been completed yet.’

  ‘What? What else is there left to do?’

  ‘We don’t know. The Mrin Codex does not end with the meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark. You’re the Guardian of the Orb now, and it’s still as important as ever, so don’t just put it on the back shelf of a closet somewhere and forget about it. Be watchful, and don’t let ordinary affairs dull your mind. Keeping the Orb is still your first duty – and I’m not going to be here to remind you about it every day.’