Enchanters' End Game

by Eddings, David

  ‘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 Garion 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 everyth
ing, 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.

  Thus concludes The Belgariad, which began with Pawn of Prophecy. And while History, unlike mortal pen, does not cease, the records beyond this point remain as yet unrevealed.

  Footnotes

  *Editor’s Note: This version, said to be from the dread Book of Torak, is one of several circulated among the Nadraks. Since only the high Grolims were permitted official copies of the work, it is impossible to establish that this version is authentic, though internal evidence suggests that much of it may be. A true copy of the complete Book of Torak is believed to be in the library of King Anheg of Cherek, but this was not available for comparison.