Enchanter's End Game

25

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 flighty 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 forever 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 Rivan 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 or 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 strongminded 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 single-minded 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 that.”

“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 besides 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.”

He didn’t want to think about that. “What will you do if somebody comes to the Vale and tries to take Errand away? You won’t be able to protect him, now that—” He faltered to a stop. He had not spoken to her about that.

“Go ahead and say it, Garion,” she said directly. “Let’s look it right in the face. You were going to say now that I no longer have any power.”

“What’s it like, Aunt Pol? Is it like losing something—a sort of emptiness, maybe?”

“I feel the same as always, dear. Of course I haven’t tried to do anything since I agreed to give it up. It might be painful if I tried to make something happen and failed. I don’t think I’d care for the experience, so I simply haven’t tried.” She shrugged. “That part of my life is over, so I’ll just have to put it behind me. Errand will be safe, though. Beldin’s in the Vale—and the twins. That’s enough power in one place to keep away anything that might want to harm him.”

“Why’s Durnik spending so much time with Grandfather?” Garion asked suddenly. “Ever since we got back to Riva, they’ve been together just about every minute they were awake.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “I imagine they’re preparing some surprise for me,” she replied. “Some suitable wedding present. They both tend to be a trifle transparent.”

“What is it?” Garion asked curiously.

“I haven’t the slightest idea—and I wouldn’t dream of trying to find out. Whatever it is, they’ve both worked too hard at it for me to spoil it for them by snooping around.” She glanced at the window where the first light of dawn was appearing. “Perhaps you’d better run along now, dear,” she suggested. “I have to start getting ready. This is a very special day for me, too, and I really want to look my best.”

“You could never look anything less than beautiful, Aunt Pol,” he told her sincerely.

“Why thank you, Garion.” She smiled at him, looking somehow almost girlish. “But I’d rather not take the chance.” She gave him an appraising glance and touched his cheek. “Why don’t you visit the baths, dear,” she suggested, “and wash your hair and get somebody to shave you.”

“I can do that myself, Aunt Pol.”

“That’s not a good idea, Garion. You’re a little nervous today, and you don’t want to put a razor to your face when your hands are trembling.”

He laughed a bit ruefully, kissed her, and started toward the door. Then he stopped and turned back toward her. “I love you, Aunt Pol,” he said simply.

“Yes, dear, I know. I love you, too.”

After he had visited the baths, Garion went looking for Lelldorin. Among the matters that had finally been settled was the marital status of the young Asturian and his semiofficial bride. Ariana had finally despaired of Lelldorin’s ever making the first move on his own and had solved the entire problem by simply moving in with him. She had been quite firm about it. Garion gathered that Lelldorin’s resistance had faded rather quickly. His expression of late had been somewhat more foolish than usual, and Ariana’s had been, although radiant, just a trifle smug. In a peculiar way, they closely resembled Relg and Taiba in that respect. Since his wedding, Relg’s expression had been one of almost perpetual astonishment, while Taiba’s had that same smugness that marked Ariana’s. Garion wondered if he might not awaken tomorrow morning to see that same self satisfied little smirk on Ce’Nedra’s lips.

There was a purpose to Garion’s search for his Asturian friend. As a result of one of Ce’Nedra’s whims, their wedding was going to be followed by a grand ball, and Lelldorin had been teaching Garion how to dance.

The idea of the ball had been greeted with enthusiasm by all the ladies; the men, however, had not been universal in their approval. Barak had been particularly vehement in his objections.

“You want me to get in the middle of the floor and dance?” he had demanded of the princess in an outraged tone of voice. “What’s wrong with all of us just getting drunk? That’s the normal way to celebrate a wedding.”

“You’ll be just fine,” Ce’Nedra had told him, patting his cheek in that infuriating way of hers. “And you will do it, won’t you, Barak—for me?” And she had insincerely fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Barak had stamped away, muttering curses under his breath.

Garion found Lelldorin and Ariana doting on each other across the breakfast table in their rooms.

“Wilt thou take breakfast with us, your Majesty?” Ariana inquired politely.

“Thanks all the same, my Lady,” Garion declined, “but I don’t seem to have much appetite today.”

“Nerves,” Lelldorin observed sagely.

“I think I’ve got most of it,” Garion rushed to the core of his problem, “but that crossover baffles me. My feet keep getting all tangled up.”

Lelldorin immediately fetched a lute, and with Ariana’s help, walked Garion through the complex procedure.

“Thou art becoming most skilled, your Majesty,” Ariana complimented him at the end of the lesson.

“All I want to do is get through it without tripping and falling on my face in public.”

“The princess would surely support thee, shouldst thou stumble.”

“I’m not sure about that. She might enjoy watching me make a fool of myself.”

“How little thou knowest of women.” Ariana gave Lelldorin an adoring look—a look he fatuously returned.

“Will you two stop that?” Garion demanded irritably. “Can’t you wait until you’re alone to carry on that way?”

“My heart is too full of love for me to hide it, Garion,” Lelldorin said extravagantly.

“So I’ve noticed,” Garion said dryly. “I’ve got to go see Silk, so I’ll leave you two to your amusements.”

Ariana blushed, then smiled. “Might we take that as a royal command, your Majesty?” she asked archly.

Garion fled.

Silk had arrived from the east late the previous evening, and Garion was anxious for news. He found the little Drasnian lingering over a breakfast of partridge and hot, spiced wine.

“Isn’t that a little heavy for breakfast?” Garion asked him.

“I’ve never been that partial to gruel first thing in the morning,” Silk replied. “Gruel’s the sort of thing a man has to work himself up to.”

Garion went directly to the point. “What’s happening in Cthol Murgos?”

“’Zakath is still laying siege to Rak Goska,” Silk reported. “He’s transporting in more troops, though. It’s pretty obvious that he’s going to strike into southern Cthol Murgos as soon as the ground’s firm enough to move an army.”

“Are the Thulls with him?”

“Only a few. Most of them are concentrating on finding the few Grolims left in their kingdom. I always thought Thulls were a stupid people, but you’d be amazed at how creative they can be when it comes to finding new and interesting ways for Grolims to die.”

“We’re going to have to keep an eye on ’Zakath,” Garion said. “I wouldn’t want him to come creeping up on me from the south.”

“I think you can count on him not to creep,” Silk said. “He sent you a message of congratulations, incidentally.”

“He did what?”

“He’s a civilized man, Garion—and a politician. He was badly shaken by the fact that you killed Torak. I think he’s actually afraid of you, so he wants to stay on your good side—at least until he finishes up in southern Cthol Murgos.”

“Who’s in command of the Murgos, now that Taur Urgas is dead?”

“Urgit, his third son by his second wife. There was the usual squabble over the succession by the various sons of Taur Urgas’s assorted wives. The fatalities were numerous, I understand.”

“What kind of man is Urgit?”

“He’s a schemer. I don’t think he’s any match for ’Zakath, but he’ll keep the Malloreans busy for ten or twenty years. By then, ’Zakath may be too old and tired of war to give you any problems.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Hettar married your cousin last week.”

“Adara? I thought she was ill.”

“Not that much, apparently. They’re coming to your wedding along with Cho-Hag and Silar.”

“Is everybody getting married?”

Silk laughed. “Not me, my young friend. In spite of this universal plunge toward matrimony, I still haven’t lost my senses. If worse comes to worst, I still know how to run. The Algars should arrive sometime this morning. They met Korodullin’s entourage, and they’re all coming together. Their ship was right behind mine when we left Camaar.”

“Was Mandorallen with them?”

Silk nodded. “Along with the Baroness of Vo Ebor. The Baron’s still much too ill to travel. I think he’s hoping that he’ll die, to leave the way clear for his wife and Mandorallen.”

Garion sighed.

“Don’t let it make you unhappy, Garion,” Silk advised. “Arends actually enjoy that kind of misery. Mandorallen’s perfectly content to suffer nobly.”

“That’s a rotten thing to say,” Garion accused the little man.

Silk shrugged. “I’m a rotten sort of person,” he admitted.

“Where are you going after—” Garion left it hanging.

“After I see you safely married?” Silk suggested pleasantly. “As soon as I recover from all the drinking I’ll do tonight, I’ll be off for Gar og Nadrak. There’s a great deal of opportunity in the new situation there. I’ve been in contact with Yarblek. He and I are going to form a partnership.”

“With Yarblek?”

“He’s not so bad—if you keep an eye on him—and he’s very shrewd. We’ll probably do rather well together.”

“I can imagine.” Garion laughed. “One of you is bad enough all by himself, but with the two of you acting together, no honest merchant’s going to escape with his skin.”

Silk grinned wickedly. “That was sort of what we had in mind.”

“I imagine that you’ll get very rich.”

“I suppose I could learn to live with that.” Silk’s eyes took on a distant look. “That’s not really what it’s all about, though,” he noted. “It’s a game. The money’s just a way of keeping score. It’s the game that’s important.”

“It seems to me that you told me that once before.”

“Nothing’s changed since then, Garion,” Silk told him with a laugh.

Aunt Pol’s wedding to Durnik took place later that morning in a small, private chapel in the west wing of the Citadel. There were but few guests. Belgarath and the twins, Beltira and Belkira, were there of course, and Silk and Barak. Aunt Pol, beautiful in a deep blue velvet gown, was attended by Queen Layla, and Garion stood with Durnik. The ceremony was performed by the hunchbacked Beldin, dressed for once in decent clothing and with a strangely gentle expression on his ugly face.

Garion’s emotions were very complex during the ceremony. He realized with a sharp little pang that Aunt Pol would no longer be exclusively his. An elemental, childish part of him resented that. He was, however, pleased that it was Durnik whom she was marrying. If anyone deserved her, it was Durnik. The good, plain man’s eyes were filled with absolute love, and he obviously could not take them from her face. Aunt Pol herself was gravely radiant as she stood at Durnik’s side.

As Garion stepped back while the two exchanged vows, he heard a faint rustle. Just inside the door of the chapel, in a hooded cloak that covered her from head to foot and wearing a heavy veil that covered her face, stood Princess Ce’Nedra. She had made a large issue of the fact that by an ancient Tolnedran custom, Garion was not supposed to see her before their wedding on this day, and the cloak and veil provided her with the illusion of invisibility. He could imagine her wrestling with the problem until she had come up with this solution. Nothing could have kept her from Polgara’s wedding, but all the niceties and formalities had to be observed. Garion smiled slightly as he turned back to the ceremony.

It was the expression on Beldin’s face that made him turn again to look sharply toward the back of the chapel—an expression of surprise that turned to calm recognition. At first Garion saw nothing, but then a faint movement up among the rafters caught his eye. The pale, ghostly shape of a snowy owl perched on one of the dark beams, watching as Aunt Pol and Durnik were married.

When the ceremony was concluded and after Durnik had respectfully and rather nervously kissed his bride, the white owl spread her pinions to circle the chapel in ghostly silence. She hovered briefly as if in silent benediction over the happy couple; then with two soft beats of her wings, she moved through the breathless air to Belgarath. The old sorcerer resolutely averted his eyes.

“You may as well look at her, father,” Aunt Pol told him. “She won’t leave until you recognize her.”

Belgarath sighed then, and looked directly at the oddly luminous bird hovering in the air before him. “I still miss you,” he said very simply. “Even after all this time.”

The owl regarded him with her golden, unblinking eyes for a moment, then flickered and vanished.

“What an absolutely astonishing thing,” Queen Layla gasped.

“We’re astonishing people, Layla,” Aunt Pol replied, “and we have a number of peculiar friends—and relatives.” She smiled then, her arm closely linked in Durnik’s. “Besides,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “you wouldn’t really expect a girl to get married without her mother in attendance, would you?”

Following the wedding, they all walked through the corridors of the Citadel back to the central fortress and stopped outside the door of Aunt Pol’s private apartment. Garion was about to follow Silk and Barak as, after a few brief congratulations, they moved on down the hallway, but Belgarath put his hand on his grandson’s arm. “Stay a moment,” the old man said.

“I don’t think we should intrude, Grandfather,” Garion said nervously.

“We’ll only stay for a few minutes,” Belgarath assured him. The old man’s lips were actually quivering with a suppressed mirth. “There’s something I want you to see.”

One of Aunt Pol’s eyebrows raised questioningly as her father and Garion followed into the apartment.

“Are we responding to some ancient and obscure custom, father?” she asked.

“No, Pol,” he replied innocently. “Garion and I only want to toast your happiness, that’s all.”

“What exactly are you up to, Old Wolf?” she asked him, but her eyes had an amused look in them.

“Do I have to be up to something?”

“You usually are, father.”

She did, however, fetch four crystal goblets and a decanter of fine old Tolnedran wine.

“The four of us started all this together quite a long time ago,” Belgarath recalled. “Perhaps, before we all separate, we should take a moment to remember that we’ve come a long way since then, and some rather strange things have happened to us. We’ve all changed in one way or another, I think.”

“You haven’t changed all that much, father,” Aunt Pol said meaningfully. “Would you get to the point?”

Belgarath’s eyes were twinkling openly now with some huge, suppressed mirth.

“Durnik has something for you,” he said.

Durnik swallowed hard. “Now?” he asked Belgarath apprehensively. Belgarath nodded.

“I know how much you love beautiful things—like that bird over there,” Durnik said to Aunt Pol, looking at the crystal wren Garion had given her the previous year. “I wanted to give you something like that, too—only I can’t work in glass or in gemstones. I’m a metalsmith, so I have to work in steel.” He had been unwrapping something covered in plain cloth. What he produced finally was an intricately wrought steel rose, just beginning to open. The details were exquisite, and the flower glowed with a burnished life of its own.

“Why, Durnik,” Aunt Pol said, genuinely pleased. “How very lovely.”

Durnik, however, did not give her the rose yet. “It has no color, though,” he noted a bit critically, “and no fragrance.” He glanced nervously at Belgarath.

“Do it,” the old man told him. “The way I showed you.”

Durnik turned back to Aunt Pol, still holding the burnished rose in his hand. “I really have nothing to give you, my Pol,” he told her humbly, “except an honest heart—and this.” He held out the rose in his hand, and his face took on an expression of intense concentration.

Garion heard it very clearly. It was a familiar, rushing surge of whispered sound, filled with a peculiarly bell-like shimmer. The polished rose in Durnik’s outstretched hand seemed to pulsate slightly, and then gradually it began to change. The outsides of the petals were as white as new snow, but the insides, where the flower was just opening, were a deep, blushing red. When Durnik finished, he held a living flower out to Aunt Pol, its petals beaded with dew.

Aunt Pol gasped as she stared incredulously at the rose. It was unlike any flower that had ever existed. With a trembling hand she took it from him, her eyes filled with sudden tears. “How is it possible?” she asked in an awed voice.

“Durnik’s a very special man now,” Belgarath told her. “So far as I know, he’s the only man who ever died and then lived again. That could not help changing him—at least a little. But then, I suspect that there’s always been a poet lurking under the surface of our good, practical friend. Maybe the only real difference is that now he has a way of letting that poet out.”

Durnik, looking just a bit embarrassed, touched the rose with a tentative finger. “It does have one advantage, my Pol,” he noted. “The steel is still in it, so it will never fade or wilt. It will stay just as it is now. Even in the middle of winter, you’ll have at least one flower.”

“Oh, Durnik!” she cried, embracing him.

Durnik looked a bit abashed as he awkwardly returned her embrace. “If you really like it, I could make you some others,” he told her. “A whole garden of them, I suppose. It’s not really all that hard, once you get the hang of it.”

Aunt Pol’s eyes, however, had suddenly widened. With one arm still about Durnik, she turned slightly to look at the crystal wren perched upon its glass twig. “Fly,” she said, and the glowing bird spread its wings and flew to her outstretched hand. Curiously it inspected the rose, dipped its beak into a dew drop, and then it lifted its head and began to sing a trilling little song. Gently Aunt Pol raised her hand aloft, and the crystal bird soared back to its glass twig. The echo of its song still hung in the silent air.

“I expect it’s time for Garion and me to be going,” Belgarath said, his face rather sentimental and misty.

Aunt Pol, however, had quite obviously realized something. Her eyes narrowed slightly, then went very wide. “Just a moment, Old Wolf,” she said to Belgarath with a faint hint of steel in her voice. “You knew about this from the very beginning, didn’t you?”

“About what, Pol?” he asked innocently.

“That Durnik—that I—” For the first time in his life Garion saw her at a loss for words. “You knew!” she flared.

“Naturally. As soon as Durnik woke up, I could feel something different in him. I’m surprised you didn’t feel it yourself. I had to work with him a bit to bring it out, though.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask, Pol.”

“You—I—” With an enormous effort she gained control of herself. “All of these months you let me go on thinking that my power was gone, and it was there all the time! It was still there, and you put me through all of that?”

“Oh, really, Pol. If you’d just stopped to think, you’d have realized that you can’t give it up like that. Once it’s there, it’s there.”

“But our Master said—”

Belgarath raised one hand. “If you’ll just stop and remember, Pol, all he really asked was if you’d be willing to limit your independence in marriage and go through life with no more power than Durnik has. Since there’s no way he could remove your power, he obviously had something else in mind.”

“You let me believe—”

“I have no control over what you believe, Pol,” he replied in his most reasonable tone of voice.

“You tricked me!”

“No, Pol,” he corrected, “you tricked yourself.” Then he smiled fondly at her. “Now, before you go off into a tirade, think about it for a moment. All things considered, it didn’t really hurt you, did it? And isn’t it really nicer to find out about it this way?” His smile became a grin. “You can even consider it my wedding present to you, if you’d like,” he added.

She stared at him for a moment, obviously wanting to be cross about the whole thing, but the look he returned her was impish. The confrontation between them had been obscure, but he had quite obviously won this time. Finally, no longer able to maintain even the fiction of anger, she laughed helplessly and put her hand affectionately on his arm. “You’re a dreadful old man, father,” she told him.

“I know,” he admitted. “Coming, Garion?”

Once they were in the hall outside, Belgarath began to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Garion asked him.

“I’ve been waiting for that moment for months,” his grandfather said, still chortling. “Did you see her face when she finally realized what had happened? She’s been moping around with that look of noble self sacrifice for all this time, and then she suddenly finds out that it was absolutely unnecessary.” His face took on a wicked little smirk. “Your Aunt’s always been just a little too sure of herself, you know. Maybe it was good for her to go for a little while thinking that she was just an ordinary person. It might give her some perspective.”

“She was right.” Garion laughed. “You are a dreadful old man.”

Belgarath grinned. “One does one’s best.”

They went along the hallway to the royal apartment where the clothes Garion was to wear for his wedding were already laid out. “Grandfather,” Garion said, sitting down to pull off his boots, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Just before Torak died, he called out to his mother.”

Belgarath, tankard in hand, nodded.

“Who is his mother?”

“The universe,” the old man replied.

“I don’t understand.”

Belgarath scratched thoughtfully at his short, white beard. “As I understand it, each of the Gods began as an idea in the mind of UL, the father of the Gods, but it was the universe that brought them forth. It’s very complicated. I don’t understand it entirely myself. Anyway, as he was dying, Torak cried out to the one thing that he felt still loved him. He was wrong, of course. UL and the other Gods did still love him, even though they knew that he had become twisted and totally evil. And the universe grieved for him.”

“The universe?”

“Didn’t you feel it? That instant when everything stopped and all the lights went out?”

“I thought that was just me.”

“No, Garion. For that single instant all the light in the universe went out, and everything stopped moving—everything—everywhere. A part of that was the grief of the universe for her dead son.”

Garion thought about that. “He had to die, though, didn’t he?”

Belgarath nodded. “It was the only way that things could get back on the right course. Torak had to die so that things could go toward what they’re supposed to. Otherwise, everything would have ultimately wound up in chaos.”

A sudden strange thought struck Garion.

“Grandfather,” he said, “who is Errand?”

“I don’t know,” Belgarath replied. “Perhaps he’s just a strange little boy. Perhaps he’s something else. You’d probably better start changing clothes.”

“I was trying not to think about that.”

“Oh, come now. This is the happiest day of your life.”

“Really?”

“It might help if you keep saying that to yourself.”

By general consent, the Gorim of Ulgo had been selected to perform the ceremony uniting Garion and Ce’Nedra in marriage. The frail, saintly old man had made the journey from Prolgu in short, easy stages, carried by litter through the caves to Sendaria, then conveyed in King Fulrach’s royal carriage to the city of Sendar and thence by ship to Riva. The revelation of the fact that the God of the Ulgos was the father of the other Gods had struck theological circles like a thunderclap. Entire libraries of turgid philosophical speculation had instantly become obsolete, and priests everywhere now stumbled about in a state of shock. Grodeg, the High Priest of Belar, fainted dead away at the news. The towering ecclesiastic, already crippled for life by the wounds he had received during the battle of Thull Mardu, did not take this final blow well. When he recovered from his swoon, his attendants found that his mind had reverted to childhood, and he spent his days now surrounded by toys and brightly colored bits of string.

The royal wedding, of course, took place in the Hall of the Rivan King, and everyone was there. King Rhodar was in crimson, King Anheg in blue. King Fulrach wore brown, and King Cho-Hag the customary Algar black. Brand, the Rivan Warder, his face made even more somber by the death of his youngest son, was dressed in Rivan gray. There were other royal visitors as well. Ran Borune XXIII in his goldcolored mantle was strangely jovial as he bantered with the shavenheaded Sadi. Oddly enough, the two of them got on well together. The possibilities of the new situation in the west appealed to them both, and they were obviously moving toward an accommodation of some sort. King Korodullin wore royal purple and stood about with the other kings—although he spoke but little. The blow to his head during the battle of Thull Mardu had affected his hearing, and the young king of Arendia was obviously uncomfortable in company.

In the very center of the gathered monarchs stood King Drosta lek Thun of Gar og Nadrak, wearing a curiously unattractive yellow doublet. The nervous, emaciated king of the Nadrak’s spoke in short little bursts, and when he laughed, there was a shrill quality in his voice. King Drosta made many arrangements that afternoon—some of which he even intended to honor.

Belgarion of Riva, of course, did not participate in those discussions—which was probably just as well. The Rivan King’s mind was a trifle distracted at that moment. Dressed all in blue, he paced nervously in a nearby antechamber where he and Lelldorin awaited the fanfare which was to summon them into the great hall.

“I wish this was all over,” he said for the sixth time.

“Just be patient, Garion,” Lelldorin advised him again.

“What are they doing out there?”

“Probably waiting for word that her Highness is ready. At this particular time, she’s far more important than you are. That’s the way weddings are, you know.”

“You’re the lucky one. You and Ariana just ran off and got married without all this fuss.”

Lelldorin laughed ruefully. “I didn’t really escape it, Garion,” he said, “just postponed it for a while. All the preparations here have inflamed my Ariana. As soon as we return to Arendia, she wants us to have a proper wedding.”

“What is it about weddings that does such strange things to the female mind?”

“Who can say?” Lelldorin shrugged. “A woman’s mind is a mystery—as you’ll soon discover.”

Garion gave him a sour look and adjusted his crown once again. “I wish it were all over,” he said again.

In time the fanfare echoed through the Hall of the Rivan King, the door opened, and, trembling visibly, Garion adjusted his crown one last time and marched out to meet his fate. Although he knew most of the people in the hall, the faces around him were all a blur as he and Lelldorin walked past the peat fires glowing in the pits in the floor toward the throne where his great sword once more hung in its proper place with the Orb of Aldur glowing on its pommel.

The hall was hung with buntings and banners, and there was a vast profusion of spring flowers. The wedding guests, in silks, satins, and brightly colored brocades, seemed themselves almost like some flower garden as they twisted and strained to watch the entrance of the royal bridegroom.

Awaiting him before the throne stood the white-robed old Gorim of Ulgo, a smile on his gentle face.

“Greetings, Belgarion,” the Gorim murmured as Garion mounted the steps.

“Holy Gorim,” Garion replied with a nervous bow.

“Be tranquil, my son,” the Gorim advised, noting Garion’s shaking hands.

“I’m trying, Holy One.”

The brazen horns sounded yet another fanfare, and the door at the back of the hall swung wide. The Imperial Princess Ce’Nedra, dressed in her creamy, pearl-studded wedding gown, stood in the doorway with her cousin Xera at her side. She was stunning. Her flaming hair streamed down across one shoulder of her gown, and she wore the varicolored golden circlet of which she had always been so fond. Her face was demure, and a delicate little blush colored her cheeks. She kept her eyes downcast, although once she flickered a quick glance at Garion, and he saw the little twinkle that lurked behind her thick lashes. He knew then with absolute certainty that all that demure modesty was a pose. She stood long enough to allow all to look their fill at her perfection before, accompanied by the sound of gently cascading harps, she came down the aisle to meet her quivering bridegroom. In a ceremony Garion thought just a trifle overdone, Barak’s two little daughters preceded the bride, strewing her path with flowers.

When she reached the dais, Ce’Nedra rather impulsively kissed the kindly old Gorim’s cheek and then took her place at Garion’s side. There was a fragrance about her that was strangely flowerlike—a fragrance that for some reason made Garion’s knees tremble.

The Gorim looked out at the assemblage and began to speak.

“We are gathered today,” he began, “to witness the last unraveling of the Prophecy which has guided all our lives through the deadliest of peril and brought us safely to this happy moment. As foretold, the Rivan King has returned. He has met our ancient foe and he has prevailed. His reward stands radiant at his side.”

Reward? Garion had not considered it in precisely that light before. He thought about it a bit as the Gorim continued, but it didn’t really help all that much. He felt a sharp little nudge in his ribs.

“Pay attention,” Ce’Nedra whispered.

It got down to the questions and answers shortly after that. Garion’s voice cracked slightly, but that was only to be expected. Ce’Nedra’s voice, however, was clear and firm. Couldn’t she at least pretend to be nervous just a little?

The rings which they exchanged were carried on a small velvet cushion by Errand. The child took his duties quite seriously, but even on his small face there was that slightly amused look. Garion resented that. Was everyone secretly laughing at him?

The ceremony concluded with the Gorim’s benediction, which Garion did not hear. The Orb of Aldur, glowing with an insufferable smugness, filled his ears with its song of jubilation during the Gorim’s blessing, adding its own peculiar congratulations.

Ce’Nedra had turned to him. “Well?” she whispered.

“Well what?” he whispered back.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“Here? In front of everybody?”

“It’s customary.”

“It’s a stupid custom.”

“Just do it, Garion,” she said with a warm little smile of encouragement. “We can discuss it later.”

Garion tried for a certain dignity in the kiss—a kind of chaste formality in keeping with the general tone of the occasion. Ce’Nedra, however, would have none of that. She threw herself into the business with an enthusiasm which Garion found slightly alarming. Her arms locked about his neck and her lips were glued to his. He irrationally wondered just how far she intended to go with this. His knees were already beginning to buckle.

The cheer which resounded through the hall saved him. The trouble with kissing in public was that one was never sure just how long one should keep it up. If it were too short, people might suspect a lack of regard; if it were too long, they might begin to snicker. Grinning rather foolishly, Belgarion of Riva turned to face the wedding guests.

The wedding ball and the supper which was part of it immediately followed the ceremony. Chatting gaily, the wedding guests trooped through a long corridor to a brightly decorated hall which had been converted into a grand ballroom ablaze with candles. The orchestra was composed of Rivan musicians under the direction of a fussy Arendish concertmaster, who strove mightily to keep the independent Rivans from improvising on those melodies which pleased them.

This was the part Garion had dreaded the most. The first dance was to be a solo affair featuring the royal couple. He was expected to march Ce’Nedra to the center of the floor and perform in public. With a sudden horror, he realized—even as he and his radiant bride went to the center of the room—that he had forgotten everything Lelldorin had taught him.

The dance which was popular at that particular season in the courts of the south was graceful and quite intricate. The partners were to face in the same direction, the man behind and slightly to one side of the woman. Their arms were supposed to be extended and their hands joined. Garion managed that part without too much trouble. It was all those quick, tiny little steps in time to the music that had him worried.

In spite of everything, though, he did quite well. The fragrance of Ce’Nedra’s hair, however, continued to work on him, and he noted that his hands trembled visibly as the two of them danced. At the end of the first melody, the wedding guests applauded enthusiastically; as the orchestra took up the second tune, they all joined in, and the floor was filled with whirling colors as the dance became general.

“I guess we didn’t do too badly,” Garion murmured.

“We were just fine,” Ce’Nedra assured him.

They continued to dance.

“Garion,” she said after a few moments.

“Yes?”

“Do you really love me?”

“Of course I do. What a silly thing to ask.”

“Silly?”

“Wrong word,” he amended quickly. “Sorry.”

“Garion,” she said after a few more measures.

“Yes?”

“I love you too, you know.”

“Of course I know.”

“Of course? Aren’t you taking a bit much for granted?”

“Why are we arguing?” he asked rather plaintively.

“We aren’t arguing, Garion,” she told him loftily. “We’re discussing.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s all right then.”

As was expected, the royal couple danced with everyone. Ce’Nedra was passed from king to king like some royal prize, and Garion escorted queens and ladies alike to the center of the floor for the obligatory few measures. Tiny blond Queen Porenn of Drasnia gave him excellent advice, as did the stately Queen Islena of Cherek. Plump little Queen Layla was motherly—even a bit giddy. Queen Silar gravely congratulated him, and Mayaserana of Arendia suggested that he’d dance better if he weren’t quite so stiff. Barak’s wife, Merel, dressed in rich green brocade, gave him the best advice of all.

“You’ll fight with each other, of course,” she told him as they danced, “but never go to sleep angry. That was always my mistake.”

And finally Garion danced with his cousin Adara.

“Are you happy?” he asked her.

“More than you could ever imagine,” she replied with a gentle smile.

“Then everything worked out for the best, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Garion. It’s as if it had all been fated to happen. Everything feels so right, somehow.”

“It’s possible that it was fated,” Garion mused. “I sometimes think we have very little control over our own lives—I know I don’t.”

She smiled. “Very deep thoughts for a bridegroom on his wedding day.” Then her face grew gravely serious. “Don’t let Ce’Nedra drive you to distraction,” she advised. “And don’t always give in to her.”

“You’ve heard about what’s been happening?”

She nodded. “Don’t take it too seriously, Garion. She’s been testing you, that’s all.”

“Are you trying to say that I still have to prove something?”

“With Ce’Nedra—probably every day. I know your little princess, Garion. All she really wants is for you to prove that you love her—and don’t be afraid to say it to her. I think you’ll be surprised at how agreeable she’ll be if you just take the trouble to tell her that you love her—frequently.”

“She knows that already.”

“But you have to tell her.”

“How often do you think I ought to say it?”

“Oh, probably every hour or so.”

He was almost certain that she was joking.

“I’ve noticed that Sendars are a reserved sort of people,” she told him. “That isn’t going to work with Ce’Nedra. You’re going to have to put your upbringing aside and come right out and say it. It will be worth the trouble, believe me.”

“I’ll try,” he promised her.

She laughed and lightly kissed his cheek. “Poor Garion,” she said.

“Why poor Garion?”

“You still have so much to learn.”

The dance continued.

Exhausted finally and famished by their efforts, Garion and his bride made their way to the groaning table and sat down to take their wedding supper. The supper was quite special. Two days before the wedding, Aunt Pol had calmly marched into the royal kitchen and had taken charge. As a result, everything was perfect. The smells from the heavily laden table were overwhelming. King Rhodar absolutely could not pass by without just one more nibble.

The music and the dance continued, and Garion watched, relieved that he had escaped the floor. His eyes sought out old friends in the crowd. Barak, huge but strangely gentle, danced with Merel, his wife. They looked very good together. Lelldorin danced with Ariana, and their eyes were lost in each others’ faces. Relg and Taiba did not dance, but sat together in a secluded corner. They were, Garion noted, holding hands. Relg’s expression was still slightly startled, but he did not look unhappy.

Near the center of the floor, Hettar and Adara danced with the innate grace of those who spend their lives on horseback. Hettar’s hawklike face was different somehow, and Adara was flushed with happiness. Garion decided that it might be a good time to try Adara’s advice. He leaned toward Ce’Nedra’s pink little ear and cleared his throat. “I love you,” he whispered. It was difficult the first time, so he tried it again—just to get the feel of it. “I love you,” he whispered again. It was easier the second time.

The effect on his princess was electrifying. She blushed a sudden rosy red, and her eyes went very wide and somehow defenseless. Her entire heart seemed to be in those eyes. She appeared unable to speak, but reached out instead gently to touch his face. As he returned her gaze, he was quite amazed at the change that the simple phrase had made in her. Adara, it appeared, had been right. He stored that bit of information away rather carefully, feeling more confident than he had in months.

The hall was filled with colors as the guests danced in celebration of the royal wedding. There were, however, a few faces that did not reflect the general happiness. Near the center of the floor, Mandorallen danced with the Lady Nerina, Baroness of Vo Ebor, and their faces mirrored that tragedy which was still central to their lives. Not far from them, Silk danced with Queen Porenn. The little man’s face bore once again that same bitter, self mocking expression Garian had first seen in King Anheg’s palace in Val Alorn.

Garion sighed.

“Melancholy already, my husband?” Ce’Nedra asked him with a little twinkle. Once again, even as they sat, she ducked her head beneath his arm and drew it about her in that peculiar way of hers. She smelled very good, and he noted that she was very soft and warm.

“I was just remembering a few things,” he replied to her question.

“Good. Try to get that all out of the way now. I wouldn’t want it interfering later.”

Garion’s face turned bright red, and Ce’Nedra laughed a wicked little laugh. “I think that perhaps later is not much further off,” she said then. “You must dance with Lady Polgara, and I will dance with your grandfather. And then I think it will be time for us to retire. It’s been a very full day.”

“I am a bit tired,” Garion agreed.

“Your day isn’t over yet, Belgarion of Riva,” she told him pointedly.

Feeling a bit peculiar about it, Garion approached Aunt Pol where she and Durnik sat watching the dance. “Will you dance with me, Aunt Polgara?” he asked with a formal little bow.

She looked at him a bit quizzically. “So you’ve finally admitted it,” she said.

“Admitted what?”

“Who I really am.”

“I’ve known.”

“But you’ve never called me by my full name before, Garion,” she pointed out, rising and gently smoothing back his hair. “I think it might be a rather significant step.”

They danced together in the glowing candlelight to the music of lutes and pipes. Polgara’s steps were more measured and slow than the dance Lelldorin had so painstakingly taught to Garion. She had reached back, Garion realized, into the dim past, and she led him through the stately measures of a dance she had learned centuries before, during her sojourn with the Wacite Arends. Together they moved through the slow, graceful, and somehow melancholy measures of a dance which had vanished forever some twenty-five centuries before, to live on only in Polgara’s memory.

Ce’Nedra was blushing furiously when Belgarath returned her to Garion for their last dance. The old man grinned impishly, bowed to his daughter and took her hands to lead her as well. The four of them danced not far from each other, and Garion clearly heard his Aunt’s question. “Have we done well, father?”

Belgarath’s smile was quite genuine. “Why yes, Polgara,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I think we’ve done very well indeed.”

“Then it was all worth it, wasn’t it, father?”

“Yes, Pol, it really was.”

They danced on.

“What did he say to you?” Garion whispered to Ce’Nedra.

She blushed. “Never mind. Maybe I’ll tell you—later.”

There was that word again.

The dance ended, and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Ce’Nedra went to her father, kissed him lightly, and then returned. “Well?” she said to Garion.

“Well what?”

She laughed. “Oh, you’re impossible.” Then she took his hand and very firmly led him from the hall.

It was quite late—perhaps two hours past midnight. Belgarath the Sorcerer was in a whimsical mood as he wandered about the deserted halls of the Rivan Citadel with a tankard in his hand. Belgarath had done a bit of celebrating, and he was feeling decidedly mellow—though not nearly as much as many of the other wedding guests, who had already mellowed themselves into insensibility.

The old man stopped once to examine a guard who was snoring in a doorway, sprawled in a puddle of spilled ale. Then, humming rather tunelessly and adding a couple of skipping little dance steps as he proceeded down the hall, the white-bearded old sorcerer made his way in the general direction of the ballroom, where he was certain there was a bit of ale left.

As he passed the Hall of the Rivan King, he noted that the door was ajar and that there was a light inside. Curious, he stuck his head through the doorway to see if anyone might be about. The Hall was deserted, and the light infusing it came from the Orb of Aldur, resting on the pommel of the sword of the Rivan King.

“Oh,” Belgarath said to the stone, “it’s you.” Then the old man walked a trifle unsteadily down the aisle to the foot of the dais. “Well, old friend,” he said, squinting up at the Orb, “I see they’ve all gone off and left you alone too.”

The Orb flickered its recognition of him.

Belgarath sat down heavily on the edge of the dais and took a drink of ale. “We’ve come a long way together, haven’t we?” he said to the Orb in a conversational tone.

The Orb ignored him.

“I wish you weren’t so serious about things all the time. You’re a very stodgy companion.” The old man took another drink.

They were silent for a while, and Belgarath pulled off one of his boots, sighed and wriggled his toes contentedly.

“You really don’t understand any of this, do you, my friend?” he asked the Orb finally. “In spite of everything, you still have the soul of a stone. You understand hate and loyalty and unswerving commitment, but you can’t comprehend the more human feelings—compassion, friendship, love—love most of all, I think. It’s sort of a shame that you don’t understand, really, because those were the things that finally decided all this. They’ve been mixed up in it from the very beginning—but then you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

The Orb continued to ignore him, its attention obviously elsewhere. “What are you concentrating on so hard?” the old man asked curiously.

The Orb, which had glowed with a bright blue radiance flickered again, and its blue became suddenly infused with a pale pink which steadily grew more and more pronounced until the stone was actually blushing.

Belgarath cast one twinkling glance in the general direction of the royal apartment. “Oh,” he said, understanding. Then he began to chuckle.

The Orb blushed even brighter.

Belgarath laughed, pulled his boot back on and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Perhaps you understand more than I thought you did,” he said to the stone. He drained the last few drops from his tankard. “I’d really like to stay and discuss it,” he said, “but I’ve run out of ale. I’m sure you’ll excuse me.”

Then he went back up the broad aisle.

When he reached the doorway, he stopped and cast one amused glance back at the still furiously blushing Orb. Then he chuckled again and went out, quietly closing the door behind him.